


All these editions of you

by dorcas_gustine



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 52,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcas_gustine/pseuds/dorcas_gustine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale in three acts:<br/>Act One: Sam. <br/><i>"You don't care," he says then, almost too low to be heard. "I'll disappear and you don't care." </i><br/>Act Two: Gene.<br/><i>"Who the hell is Sam Williams and what's he doin' here?" </i><br/>Act Three: Annie.<br/><i>"Annie!" he calls again, and she turns. "Tell him DI Sam Williams wants to speak with him."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> death!fic. Sorta. AU from around 2x03, but it contains spoilers for the ending.  
> Betaed by m31andy over on lj who's also suggested some lovely lines, THANK YOU.

Gene's already thinking about the Scotch he's gonna have at the Railway Arms. Not his usual, cheaper one, but definitely a single malt, twelve years old maybe, or even better _sixteen_, if Nelson has some. There's no particular reason or date to celebrate, but Gene's always been of the idea that sometimes you should allow yourself the luxury of giving in to temptation, not too often, mind you, but just enough so that you can face all the crappy days God throws at you.

But the door bursts open and in storms DI Sam Tyler, his personal, nasty headache.

Gene sighs loudly as his single malt fades away in the distance. He leans back and latches his fingers behind his head, bracing himself for another of those usual speeches about whatever's just crawled up Tyler's arse. Normally, he stops listening the second Tyler opens his mouth, and only tunes in when important words turn up, like 'murder', or 'pub'. From the   
affronted look on Sam's face this is going to be _long_.

The Scotch is now only a vague memory.

"You," Sam says, slamming his hand on the desk and pointing a finger at him, menacingly, "had _no_ right!"

Gene presses his lips together and thinks about it, but as far as he's concerned he's got a right to everything he does. Not for the first time he wonders why he puts up with the effing pain in the arse otherwise known as Sam bloody Tyler. Then he thinks about two days ago and remembers.

Oh, _right_.

And now Sammy-boy is confused, and a little suspicious maybe. "Why are you smiling?"

"Just picturin' you naked," he grins, then gestures with his hand. "Don't mind me, do carry on."

Sam gives him a disgusted look, like _he_ isn't the one of the kinky sex and the handcuffs. He doesn't comment though and continues. "The Super's filed a transfer at your request."

Gene frowns. "Since when does the Super listen to me?"

And he certainly doesn't remember requesting anything from him, the only times he's voiced his feelings on the subject have been in the pub, with more than a few beers in his body and the percentage of swear words greatly surpassing that of the regular ones. Somehow, though, he's sure that if the Super ever witnessed one of those, _Gene_ would be the one with a transfer.

"The transfer is for _me_, you arrogant bastard!" Sam yells and slams his hands down on the desktop.

Gene sits up straighter and frowns. "What? I never-" He _had_, though, but it's been months and he's completely forgotten. Until now. "I filed that request shortly after you arrived, I didn't remember…" he trails off.

Sam shakes his head. "But _why_?"

Gene snorts. "Oh, _that_ I remember, and it shouldn't be too hard for you to figure out. I seem to recall somebody always whining about wanting to go home," he says and Sam has the grace to look ashamed. "I got tired of it, Tyler. We're a police station, not a bloody nursery school!"

Gladys, of course, never knows what's good for him and instead of shutting up, he retorts, "You could have asked me!"

"Yeah, and what would you have said?" Gene snorts. "Forget it. You would have taken it gladly. You _will_ take it gladly."

"How can you be so sure?"

"As I said you may have mentioned it a few times. I was tired of your whining, reckon you'll be all glad like, when you're in Hyde once again. As for me, no more whining."

Sam glares at him. "Yeah, Hyde of the gay science and doing things by the book."

He points two fingers at him. "And don't you forget the doughnuts."

Sam does his 'I can't believe this!' face. "Things have changed!" he exclaims.

Gene studies him for a long moment. "Have they?" he asks, finally. But Sam says nothing and Gene goes on. "This has never been enough for you, Mr Perfect, Mr By The Book, _we_ will never be enough. So take your bloody transfer and go away, go back to the perfect world you fancy so much!"

That seems to get a reaction out of Sam, he looks up sharply and quietly asks, "Do you… Do you want me to go?"

"What difference would it make?" Gene counters, because if he's learned something is that what you do or do not want carries very little weight, if at all, and that life is like a casino: you can hit the jackpot once in a while, but the bank always wins in the end.

"It would to me," Sam replies, softly.

"No, it wouldn't," Gene says, harshly. "Because if I say no, you'll feel like I've stomped all over your favourite toys and if I say yes you'll feel all smug and important like. But in the end the result is the same, you're leaving. Someone else will take your desk. End of story."

Gladys, like the little girl he is, looks like he's about to cry so Gene grabs his coat and makes to leave, but some of Tyler's softness must have rubbed off on him – along with other things – because he stops just before opening the door.

"When are you leaving?" he asks.

"In a week, ten days at the most," comes the soft reply. "I never thought it would be so… _easy_ to go back."

"It's always easy."

"No, it isn't," Sam says, turning around to face him. "This is like- some sort of revenge of reality," and apparently they've just reached that point where Tyler starts making no sense. "It shouldn't be this easy, not for me. It has never been until now."

Gene recalls how things used to be, before Sam, and how much they have changed now that they know, that they have the _proof_ that no one's infallible, not even them, not even _Harry_, and maybe Sam is right. It won't be easy. He thinks of pale, powerful thighs and a wide back, he thinks of lazy kisses and broad, male hands.

It won't be easy at all.

"Guv," Sam calls out at him and he turns. "Buy you a drink?" he offers and while his eyes are certainly shiny, he isn't crying, thank God.

Gene pretends to think about it, but in the end he nods, because there are free drinks involved and he's not an idiot.

*

*

*

"I had forgotten 'bout it," Gene admits.

Tyler raises his head from his arms crossed on the table and squints up at him. His face is tight and worn in his usual 'nobody understands me' expression. And maybe he's right and nobody does – because let's face it, blood pattern analysis? That's just pulling stuff out of your arse – but Sam has brought suffering to previously unachieved standards. Gene frowns, he'd have never used the world 'unachieved' before meeting Sam.

"Wha'?" Sam says, and he sounds confused.

Gene's tried counting the empty glasses on the table, but Nelson keeps the refills coming, and he's given up after six. Not that it matters anyway, Sam's buying.

"What, Guv?" Sam repeats, then starts muttering. "What? What? Whatwhat?"

Gene watches as he snorts, then giggles. "Whaat?"

"Well, well," he says finally, with a smirk. "Aren't you completely bladdered, DI Tyler?"

"Maybe," Sam says lowering his eyelids in what Gene supposes should be an intriguing look. The effect is ruined, though, when Sam begins to tilt sideways.

"You can't hold yer alcohol," Gene informs him, and really, it's a wonder he's managed to last this much, scrawny as he is. "Chris could probably drink you under the table."

"Chris couldn't drink a twelve year old girl under the table, Guv," Sam replies and, by the way Chris has been blinking stupidly at his drink for a good ten minutes now, he's probably right.

"What's that you've forgotten?" Sam asks, and when he meets his eyes he looks sober enough.

"'Bout the transfer," Gene says quietly. "It was months ago, you wanted to go and I didn't want to keep you, so I went to the Super and told him they could take you back, for all I cared," he falls silent, then after a moment admits. "I might've had a drink or two at the time and I wasn't particularly happy with you. Didn't think he'd take me seriously, though."

"Until now," Sam comments, sipping from a pint that might or might not be Gene's.

He nods. "Yeah, until now."

Sam leans back, his lips pressed together, he's frowning as if thinking hard about something – harder than usual. He manages to find a spot amidst all the empty glasses and puts down the pint. Gene figures that's the end of it and turns to call Nelson over to clean the table and to bring them two more pints – the last ones, he promised to be home for dinner.

But in the short time that it takes Gene to raise his hand Sam must have lost the last screw holding his cogs together, because he suddenly throws his head back and starts laughing out loud. There's nothing jovial about that laugh, though, and it's not even a drunken laugh, it's harsh and raw and bitter and it makes his skin crawl. It's a mad man's laugh. Gene's been turning a deaf ear to the things Sam sometimes mutters to himself, to the things Cartwright's told him, because Sam's a damn good copper when it comes down to it, and he's figured it would eventually get better. Only, it _hasn't_, and Tyler's losing it, right now, in the pub, in front of everybody.

Sam suddenly stops laughing and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Nobody's moving in the absolute silence, even Nelson's stopped on the way to their table and is now observing warily as Sam slowly and unsteadily stands up. He gropes blindly for a glass, comes up with an empty one, puts it down and takes another with some remnants of beer.

Gene follows his every move as he raises the glass in a toast. "This," he begins, then clears his throat. "This is to me going back to Hyde because Gene Hunt bloody _forgot_!" he exclaims, then drains the last of the pint and stumbles away from the table, almost knocking everything over.

Gene recovers quickly though, and grabbing both his coat and Sam's leather jacket, he follows the bleeding idiot outside.

Everybody knows pissed people are supposed to be slower and stupider, but somehow Gene's not really surprised that Tyler turns out to be a contrary sod even in this. When he's out in the evening air the bloody wanker is already on the side of the street, his stride fast and resolute, if a bit stumbling.

"Oi, Gladys!" he calls out, but Sam continues as if he hasn't heard, he quickens his pace if anything, and almost falls on his stupid face when he trips over his own feet.

Well, in desperate cases.

Gene tosses his coat and Sam's jacket in the back seat of the car, then he gets in and with a swift U-turn he's driving in the direction Sam's going, driving along the pavement at a walking speed.

When he reaches Tyler, he leans over the passenger seat and calls out to him through the open side window. "Oi, Tyler! You deaf on top of the whole being a bloody twat thing?"

Sam just raises his chin and goes on walking, and that's a damned childish behaviour if he's ever seen one.

"Get in, you idiot!"

"No thanks, I'm walking," Sam stumbles again but doesn't seem to notice. "My flat's close. Half an hour walk, in fact."

"I know where your bloody flat is!" he yells at him, and really, he's had enough.

Gene stops the car and gets out, making his way around the bonnet and coming to stand in front of Sam. Grabbing his arms, he pushes him towards the car, but of course Tyler, being the little stubborn bastard he is, tries to fight back. As always, though, he's set himself up for a defeat because, after a brief struggle, Gene punches him in the gut, not unkindly, and Sam sags against him, coughing against his chest.

"Get in," Gene says for the last time.

But Sam stands still, and his breathing is warm against Gene's shirt.

"You don't care," he says then, almost too low to be heard. "I'll disappear and you don't care."

Gene grabs his shoulders and pushes him back to look straight into his face. "You're a bloody girl sometimes, you know that?" he says, but Sam just shakes his head. "And a bloody melodramatic one at that! 'I'll disappear'!" he mock-whines and shakes Sam, hard, until he makes a vague sound of protest. "Where d'ya think you're goin'? Bloody Uganda? There's them nifty devices, you know? They're called telephones. You pick one up and dial."

Sam laughs again, his mad-man laugh. "Yeah, Hyde 2612."

"Yeah, _Hyde_, Tyler," Gene says. "Remember? That place where everything is shiny and perfect and by the book? _That_ place!"

"You don't understand, Guv," Sam mutters.

"Maybe I don't, but Hyde is not that far away. It's not like you're bein' stationed in _India_."

"I might as well be," Sam says, but offers no resistance when Gene pushes him towards the car, he even gets in by himself, without protesting.

Gene goes around the car and when he's seated and ready to leave, Sam turns towards him asks, seriously as if it was a matter of life and death, "you're saying- you're telling me that you'd be willing to come and visit me…in Hyde?"

Really, sometimes Gene wonders why Sam hasn't been sent to the funny farm yet, or why he's even bothering with him.

He just shoots a look in Sam's direction. "I'll even bring flowers," but the crazy nutter's off laughing again, and keeps on snorting and giggling all the way to his flat as if this were the most amusing joke in the world.

*

*

*

Once inside his flat Sam seems to lose all of his giggles and falls face down on the bed to lay there, motionless, and if he weren't watching him closely, Gene would swear he's fallen asleep.

He stands for a moment in the threshold, then makes up his mind and gets in, shutting the door behind him.

"I thought you were supposed to go home tonight," Sam says from the bed.

Gene doesn't answer, right now he doesn't give a rat's arse about what Sam's thinking, and he crosses the room to the tiny kitchenette. He opens and closes the cupboards, but they're empty except for some rice and those fancy herbs Sam likes so much.

"If you're looking for the Scotch," comes Sam's muffled voice. "Sorry," he says and raises his right arm, showing Gene the empty bottle clutched in his hand.

"Bloody hell, Sam," he exclaims, slamming the cupboards shut. "I bought that bottle just three days ago!"

"I couldn't sleep last night," Sam replies quietly, his fingers loosening, letting the bottle fall to the floor with a clatter.

He rubs his face, feeling tired all of a sudden, and goes to sit on the bed, Sam curling on his side to accommodate him, not quite touching him.

"You've been drinking way too much, lately."

Sam snorts. "This coming from the man who's a walking brewery."

"But you're not me, Sam," Gene says, grabbing his shoulder and turning him so that he's lying on his back. "I thought you were supposed to be better than me."

Sam drapes an arm over his face and sighs. "Maybe I can't. Maybe I'm not."

"You're makin' no sense."

"And what else is new?"

"Shut up, smart arse," Gene says and lets his hand travel from Sam's hip up his right side, then down again.

He feels Sam gradually relaxing, and finally he sighs, asking quietly, "stay?"

Gene knows he's supposed to go home, because he's got a wife there, with a nice house and a hot dinner waiting for him. But he looks down, and there's this bloke, softly breathing and all laid out, with his mad-man laugh, his wonky ideas, his blood patterns and his nancy-boy science. It's Sam, who drinks himself into unconsciousness to pass the night, but who sleeps without trouble after sex. It's Sam, who asks him to stay, even when he knows the answer is going to be no.

But Gene shrugs off his coat and lets it fall to the ground. "Budge up," he grunts, now half lying on the bed, trying to take off his shirt and tie as well.

Sam's arm raises from his face and mildly surprised eyes look up at him. "You're staying," he says, but it sounds unconvinced, like a question.

"No, I'm just takin' a nap," he retorts. "Of course I'm staying. Now shove over, Gladys, that's a good girl," he almost falls off the bed and curses. "This bed is too bloody small."

Sam grins and moves sideways toward the edge, turning on his side. He reaches for Gene as well, his arms slipping around his neck, and tries to kiss him, but the whole thing is awkward as he's still trying to get the tie off and Sam only manages a quick peck on the lips before changing venues.

"What the-" he starts when Sam turns around and almost hits him in the face with a bony knee, but everything comes pretty clear when he feels Sam's hands at the front of his pants and the zipper being opened.

He forgets about the tie altogether and gasps, as Sam takes him in, hot wetness engulfing him. He never thought one day he would use the word 'cocksucker' as a compliment. He leans back, holding onto Sam's legs, his buttocks, and Sam works quietly on him, slowly, and it's all right because they have the whole night, their combined moans filling the room.

*

*

*

Gene wakes up to the smell of coffee and fried eggs.

He grunts and blinks, the light all wrong in his bedroom, before realizing he is not, in fact, in his bedroom.

"Bollocks."

"And good morning to you, ray of sunshine," Sam chirps annoyingly and crouches by the bed so that they're eye to eye.

"Whassthetime?" he mumbles against the pillow.

"Just after seven, Guv," Sam replies and he groans because nobody should be that cheery at this bloody hour, especially considering all the alcohol Tyler drank last night. If the world were a fair place he'd be nursing the mother of all the hangovers and Gene'd still be sleeping peacefully.

"Breakfast's ready," Sam says.

Amazing what a shag and good night's sleep can do for the twat.

Sam's bringing coffee along with his annoying smirk, though, so Gene's willing to let him get away with that. His hand sneaking out from under the covers, he grabs the mug that Sam keeps moving under his nose, the rich smell of coffee filling his nostrils. Tyler lives in a hole and has got only one mug, but he buys what has to be the most expensive coffee in town. The whole world will end the day Gene finally figures him out, but in the meantime he gets good coffee.

And a great shag.

He takes a sip, then his other hand makes a grab at Sam's old, worn, vest and pulls him forward.

"Your breath stinks," Sam says with a grimace, but kisses him anyway.

"Shut up," he says and takes another sip of coffee before putting the mug down, then he tugs again at Sam. "Come 'ere, I feel like a shag."

Sam pushes back a little. "No more lube, Guv," he says.

Gene looks pointedly at him. "I'll think of something," he says, then spits in his hand.

Sam makes a disgusted face and hastily stands up, taking a couple of steps backwards. "Jesus, Guv! Spit and a prayer?" he exclaims and Gene raises his eyebrows at him. "Spit is not lube, Gene! It's just- Well, _spit_."

Gene sniffs and turns on his back, one hand behind his head, the other scratching idly at his naked chest. "Thank you, Mr Oxford Dictionary," he smirks up at Sam. "You are the one of the gay science, Sammy-boy, you figure it out. I want my morning shag."

Sam groans and hangs his head. "You're not gonna let that slide, are you?"

"Nope."

Tyler scratches the back of his head. "Olive oil?" he says.

"Good idea. Unblock your ears. I always thought you weren't listening to a bloody word."

*

*

*

Gene's wife called while Sam was in the shower and, even if he wasn't expecting a big fuss over his missed dinner, the quiet resignation in her voice has certainly been a bolt out of the blue.

"It's alright, Gene," she said. "I understand."

And even now, hours later in the office, he feels like he's just taken a backhander from that scum Warren, and the fact that everyone's tiptoeing around him and Sam doesn't help the matter in the least. Gene almost wishes for some poor bastard getting killed, so he can get his mind off the whole thing.

It's Cartwright, around 10, who makes the first move, and it says so much when the only one who's got balls enough to come and talk to him is the bloody bird.

"Uh, Guv," she begins. "Is it true? What Sam- DI Tyler said yesterday in the pub?"

"Yes," he says. "Now you can go hold his hand and kiss it better."

She stiffens at that and Gene watches as she stands straighter, all determined like, her chin thrust up. He pities the poor the sod who's gonna marry her and, if it's gonna be Sam, Gene just knows who'll be the one wearing the trousers in the relationship.

"With all due respect, sir, my personal relationship with DI Tyler is none of your business," she says and Gene barely manages to keep his face straight at that, because oh, the stories he could tell her. "And frankly speaking, I can't understand why you've done something like this. I thought you considered Sam a friend, that you… respected him."

"With all due respect, WDC Cartwright, my personal relationship with DI Tyler is none of your business," he replies, leaning back against his chair.

"Sir," she says, but makes no move to go away.

He sighs, long suffering. "I guess you could call it a clerical mistake. Or a misunderstanding," what did Sam say? "The revenge of reality."

"But, Guv," she continues, relentless. "Aren't you going to do something about this?"

"Apart from the Super, the only one who can refuse the transfer is Sam and, even if I request his staying, how long do you think it will take to get him back? And, by then, do you really think he'd want to come back here? He's been moaning about Hyde since day one."

"You don't think he'll… miss us, then?" she asks, birds and their namby-pamby feelings.

"Of course he'll miss us, he'll cry over you and all the cosy moments you spent together. But I'm no fool, Cartwright, and you're a pretty smart bird, as well. Answer this then, what has he ever done to stay?"

The plonk doesn't answer, but the way she frowns and looks down all confused, avoiding Gene's eyes tells him he's hit the jackpot.

"So you want to try and keep him 'ere with your feminine charms? Be my guest, love, but don't think you'll get results, even if you show up starkers and shake your tits under his nose."

At that she finally leaves.

*

*

*

Gene is trying to watch the bloody Corrie, but of course he can't because Tyler is turning everything upside down, opening drawers, slamming them closed, whizzing to and fro in front of the telly, so fast it's making him dizzy.

"Tyler!" he yells, grabbing the pillow and throwing it at him.

The pillow hits him in the chest and falls to the floor, Gladys glares at him, but picks it up and puts it back into place. Then he kneels by the bed and looks under it.

While Tyler's not upsetting his telly-watching anymore, he's certainly giving him ideas.

"What," he asks, finally, "are you doin'?"

Tyler leans with his elbows on the mattress, still kneeling, and rubs his face, it's his 'Apocalypse Face'. He uses it a lot, the melodramatic bastard. "I can't find it," he sighs at last.

"What? Yer brain?" he shrugs. "It will be back soon, probably can't stay too far from yer big, airy-fairy head."

Sam glares at him. "They should give you awards for your _hilarious_ jokes."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Gladys," he tells him, and it's not the first time.

Sam doesn't reply, even if he makes a big show of rolling his eyes and sighing, and goes back to looking under the bed. And there's nothing like a certain half-naked DI crawling around on all fours to pique Gene's interest. Telly forgotten, he changes position on the bed so he can comfortably sit and watch as Tyler shakes his- "Stop it!" Sam exclaims, pointing a menacing finger at him without even looking. "You're distracting me!"

"No, _you_ are distracting me from the amazing…" Gene casts a glance back to check what the hell he's been watching until a moment earlier, "…world of Coronation Street."

"You don't even like it!" Sam emerges once again from under the bed, and this times he turns around, back against it and sitting on the floor, his legs stretched in front of him. He lets his head fall back. "I can't find my St. Christopher medal," he sighs.

Gene's eyes travels down Sam's neck to his naked chest, and the gold chain is in fact missing. "You had it earlier," he says and shrugs.

"Yes," Sam says, and glares at him. "Before _somebody_ decided manhandling was a brilliant idea as foreplay."

He snorts. "As if you didn't like it."

Sam shrugs. "Well, doesn't matter now."

But it obviously _does_ matter, because Tyler sighs like a broken-hearted girl every other minute and his eyes are staring at a spot on the ceiling that holds nothing of interest except for a particularly mysterious stain.

Gene rolls his eyes, but he must have been too loud, because Sam has heard him and evidently taken it as a question aimed at him. "It was a gift," he says. "This man gave it to me, he said it was the property a friend of his. I promised to take good care of it."

He waits a bit, and Sam remains silent, but it's obvious he just_ itches_ to go on with his bloody story. He sighs. "If it was his friend's why did he give it to you?"

Sam shrugs, "I don't know. He told me his friend had left, and it stuck because it was around the time my… dad had gone away, as well."

"Who was he?"

"I don't remember, I was _four_, Gene. I just-" he shakes his head, "he looked like a giant to me, a big, mighty giant. And I remember he smelled of smoke, and Brut," Sam raises his head. "Kind of like _you_," he says softly and turns to look at him, blinking like an idiot.

Gene frowns. "What?"

Sam looks like he's about to say something but he just smiles and ducks his head. "Nothing," he says at last.

He's finally silent, and seems to have somehow settled all his worries about the bloody chain.

"It'll be around 'ere somewhere," he tells Sam, after a while, "it's not like you live in a bloody castle."

*

*

*

*

"Ah, Guv," Chris says when he emerges from his office around lunch time. "You just missed him."

Gene frowns at him, then checks the hour, but everything's as it should be, he hasn't lost part of the conversation, even if it feels like it. "What?"

"The Boss, Guv, you just missed him," Chris explains, and he nods in the direction of the doors leading out of CID.

Of course he's just missed him, Tyler was in his office until barely two minutes ago, when he left for lunch.

"I know," Gene says slowly, in case Chris might lose part of it. "I was there when he left."

Chris blinks rapidly at him, and it's a wonder he doesn't get dizzy from that, really. "Uh, not the _Boss_," he says shaking his head. "The other Boss, the New Boss."

Gene nods thoughtfully, considering that, then he clears his voice. "Right. Will you be makin' sense any time soon or should I sit down?" he leans back with his arse against Tyler's desk, just to be on the safe side.

"The replacement. From Hyde," Chris finally clarifies. "He was here."

Gene frowns. "I thought he was supposed to be here on Monday."

"Said he didn't wanna waste time, that he had nothing to do," Chris shrugs. "Name's Malcolm Parkman."

"And where's he now?"

"Boss has got him."

He quickly stands up. "Where did they go?"

Chris shakes his head. "Canteen, I suppose."

"Right," he nods and he's off. He needs to separate those two before Tyler has the time to corrupt another one of his men.

He spots them as soon as he opens the door of the canteen, Tyler and the new guy are sat at the table in the corner, on the far right, heads bent together and all chitty-chatty, like two school girls. Well, Gladys looks like a school girl, the other bloke looks like a docker, or a rugby player.

When he gets to their table, though, it's too late already. They're talking about _dusting for prints_.

"Great," he mutters and they both turn to look at him, questioningly.

"And _this_ is DCI Hunt," Sam says, smiling his smart arse smile at him. "Your new boss. He looks and acts just like a bastard, but don't worry, he's even worse."

"Kiss me pale arse, Gladys," he replies, then stabs a finger in the new DI's – Parkman? – direction. "I thought we had an agreement over the men! He's _mine_!"

Sam frowns and leans back on the chair, his arms crossed. "Don't think so, Guv," he says.

"Well, then, think again!"

Sam cocks his head to the side. "You got Ray, Billy, Lytts, Dave and Nick," he raises five fingers on his left hand, then raises his right one and start the counting on that, as well.

"I get Chris, Annie, Ed and Phil," he looks down at his hands with a mock-surprised expression. "That's _four_!" he points at Parkman. "He's _mine_."

This is gonna take a while, so Gene grabs a chair and sits down, slamming his palms down on the table. "Technically he's not working here, yet," he says. "And he's gonna take your place, so we could say he's you. And since I'm the Guv around here and you, Tyler, are mine-" huh, and that doesn't come out that well, in his head it doesn't sound so queer "-I win, he's mine. Hand him over."

He extends his hand, smirking smugly, and how does it feel to be beaten at your own game, Sammy-boy?

Of course, Tyler is _never_ proven wrong, and just lifts his chin, narrowing his eyes at him, and if he wants to start a glaring completion, he's found somebody just cut out for the job.

"Uh," the replacement starts. "That was funny, really, if a bit disturbing. You should do cabaret."

Now that he gets a good look at him, Parkman could easily pass for a rugby player, wide shoulders, broken nose, overall nasty air. So, not everybody in Hyde is a girlie poof.

Now, if only he could understand why they keep their hair so bloody short.

"And I'd really like to know what the hell is going on."

"Tyler is a bloody cheat, that's what's goin' on," Gene answers, glaring at the twat in question. "We've got an agreement over the men in _me_ team he gets to corrupt, and he's just broken it."

"Corrupt, Sir?"

"Yes," Tyler says, and in Gene's opinion he's still rather poor at that sarcasm thing. "I _corrupt_ them with proper procedure."

The bloody gits share a glance and snort at the same time, and Gene is having a very bad feeling about this.

"Where I-" Sam looks at Parkman, "_we_ come from, that's the rule."

Oh, bollocks, he should have _known_. "Bloody Hyde," he mutters and rolls his eyes. "What have I done to deserve this?"

"Karma is a bitch, Guv," Sam says, nodding like he always does, like he knows all the secrets in the universe.

"Whatever," he shrugs. "At least he's not a girl like you Gladys, two birds in me team are more than enough," then a thought suddenly occurs to him, he narrows his eyes at the replacement and asks. "You aren't one of those United losers, are you?"

"Sir!" Parkman lets out an indignant cry. "I've been Blue since the day I was born!"

Ah, well, they _do_ something good in Hyde, after all. "DI Parkman," he says, clapping the chap on the shoulder. "For that, I'll let you buy me a Scotch later at the pub," then he turns to Tyler. "WDI Gladys, I believe you owe me lunch."

*

*

*

*

Reality catches up with them fairly quickly. It's nothing major, actually, but it's enough.

They've been kissing for a while, and Gene knows now and knew then, they should have stopped sooner. No, they shouldn't have even started. Because they have rules. They have rules for this _thing_ between them. And one of those rules is 'never at work'. It's the only one both of them have agreed to without protest.

And it's the only one they break regularly.

He has Tyler pressed against the wall, in Lost and Found, and he's sure there's nobody left at the station, it's late, and they're free to 'get started' before they go back to Sam's flat and finish.

But this time, it doesn't work like that.

This time it's a gasp, Chris' widened eyes and Tyler stopping him when Gene wants to go after the bloody div.

And now, three fags and a thrown chair later, he's still in Lost and Found, but there's no trace of Tyler, nor Chris.

He's thinking about going back to his office to grab his coat, to get a hold of all his hip flasks. Getting mighty pissed and killing every memory he has of this night sounds like a good enough plan to him.

The door opens slowly and Tyler comes in, shutting it behind him and leaning against it. "He's not gonna tell anybody."

Gene snorts, of course Chris is not gonna tell anybody! He's a nice lad, but he lacks the balls to stand against his Guv. No, he's not gonna tell. But now Gene has to face his disgust, and maybe his loss of trust.

Sam is still leaning against the door, and the whole room is between them. "From now on, I think we shouldn't-" he says, but stops. "I mean…"

Gene nods thoughtfully. "Yeah."

Tyler nods at him, and sighs, and for once Gene thinks his air of misery is appropriate. He nods again, and makes as if to go, opening the door a tad. He stops on the threshold, though, and looks back at him. "Should I be waiting for you?" he asks softly, and when Gene frowns at him uncomprehendingly. "Tonight?"

Gene snorts. "I thought you said we shouldn't any more."

Sam closes the door and takes a few steps into the room. "I meant _here_!" he exclaims.

He raises his eyebrows. "You did."

Tyler nods, still frowning, then he asks softly. "You want to break it off?"

He rolls his eyes, because if he wanted melodrama he could read his wife's romance novels. "Now, now. Don't cry on me."

"What's the point?" Sam shakes his head. "I'll be gone soon enough, anyway."

"Bloody hell, Tyler," he groans. "You're talking as if you're gonna drop dead any minute!"

"I might as well be," Sam replies, looking straight at him, and for a moment, he believes him.

*

*

*

*

He lets his hands glide over pale skin, from the back of the knees up and up, until Sam gasps softly and relaxes. He thinks too much for his own good in Gene's opinion, but he has really nice arse.

The legs spread under him, but he doesn't move, just hovers over Sam's back, without touching him but close enough to feel the warmth of his body, the slight trembling.

"Get on with it, Gene!" Sam exclaims, urgently and this, the begging, is even better than the actual sex, sometimes. Well, not _better_, but damn close, Mr. Stiff-Uppity himself asking to be shagged by Gene Hunt? Not an ordinary thing in Gene's world. Until lately, anyway.

"_Gene_," Sam breathes and he gives up, because if Sam wants to be fucked, on his part he certainly wants to fuck him.

He buries his face against the back of his neck, inhaling deeply, and that's something else he's picked up from Sam. When Gene commented about his weird habit of going around sniffing things, he started yapping away, hiding behind all of his clever science. '_Primal_', he said; some scents go straight to the subconscious avoiding the thinking process altogether.

Or something.

And Tyler says he never listens to him.

Gene figures he's right in a way, though, because he's here sniffing Tyler like a bloody dog and he's doing no thinking at all, except with his dick.

Under him Sam arches up and brings them in contact, from shoulders down to their feet, aligned together.

"Gene," Sam says again and Gene doesn't think that this may be the last time, he doesn't think of Sam's leaving, he just buries his nose in the soft hair and keeps him open as he pushes inside him.

And Gene would have figured Sam for one of those people who make a lot of noise during a shag. Not that he's actually spent much thought on it, none at all in fact. He just remembers that the first time they did this, grinding against each other, half-pissed, half-furious, he was surprised at Sam's soft, almost mute gasps. You'd think that a bloke that spends most of his waking time flapping his trap like there's no tomorrow would be more…_vocal_.

He stops and, despite Sam's protests, he draws back.

"What are you doing?" Sam frowns back at him over his shoulder, but he doesn't answer, he just grabs his hips and pushes, turning him around and finally Sam gets on with the program.

Long legs hooked on his shoulders, and Sam's folded in half under his weight, under him. And what's Gene's and what's Sam's blurs together and it's only hands that grasp and grab and hold on and stroke, and there's only mouths and lips and tongues. And he buries his face against the sweaty neck beneath him, and he tries to get deeper and hands are clawing at his back and the only noises in the room are his grunts, the sound of flesh meeting flesh and those quiet, broken gasps that Gene knows will forever haunt his dreams.

*

*

*

*

Gene idly scratches his thigh, Sam's breath slow and warm where his face is squashed up against his shoulder. He's not sleeping, though, and whatever he was thinking earlier has now come back, Gene knows. He knows because Sam's tense beside him, because his eyes are squeezed shut, as if there's something he really doesn't want to see.

He sniffs, and wishes for a fag. "You got it wrong," he tells him.

"What?" Sam asks, confused, and feels more than hears the words, as they're formed and spoken against his skin.

"You've got it wrong," he repeats. "When you don't wanna see something that's inside your head, you have to open your eyes."

Sam makes a surprised sound, but when he turns his head to look at him, his eyes are open. "What makes you think it's inside my head?"

"Because, Sammy-boy," he replies, "your head is a very, very scary place."

Sam laughs softly, the quiet rumbles shaking his thin frame lightly. "You may be onto something there."

"Don't I know it."

After a while, still looking at him, Sam asks. "Aren't you gonna say something?"

Gene thinks about it, "Um, nice shag?" he tries, but Sam rolls his eyes. "What d'ya want me to say?"

Sam shifts on his back, "I…don't know," he frowns at the ceiling, "I'm leaving in two days. Feels like you should say something."

Gene snorts. "Goodbye. That's what I'm gonna say. Tomorrow. At your farewell party."

Sam nods and falls silent.

Gene suddenly craves some Scotch to drink, because nobody should endure a brooding Tyler without the benefits of a single malt or twenty. He stands up.

"I don't know if we'll ever see each other again," Sam says then, and Gene groans loudly.

Really, how girlie can you get?

"_Please_!" he snorts. "You'll probably get bored with all the nancies in C Division and come back here!"

He finds the bottle and proceeds to generously pour some Scotch for both of them.

"Here where the real men are?" Oooh, _sarcasm_, good boy.

"Nope, where _I_ am," he considers the amount of Scotch and pours himself some more, making it a triple.

Sam looks at him in disbelief. "Bloody sure of yourself, are you?"

"Now that you've had a taste of the Gene Genie you can't do without," he says, handing one glass to Sam before going to the window, turning and leaning back against the sill.

"Sure Guv," Sam snorts. "I couldn't live without you."

"Right," he nods, scratching his belly and taking a sip, "I'm all indispensable, like, to you and all that crap, Tyler."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you're like air."

Gene waits for him to drink again, then, "I'm your oxy_Gene_."

Sam's eyes widen and he starts coughing and hacking, and when he's more or less able to breathe again he glares at him. "Jesus, Gene," but the already poor effect is ruined when he starts laughing loudly, and for once it's not the mad-man laugh.

After a moment the laughter subside and Sam goes back to thoughtfully sipping his Scotch, or what's left of it anyway. Finally, he looks straight at him. "Never thought I would," he says. "But I'll miss you."

"Hmm," Gene nods, thinking about it. "Sissy."

But Sam smiles again and Gene has to look away before he realizes that in two days he won't see that any more. Something catches his eye, there, by the table leg. A glimpse of gold shining in the late afternoon light coming from the window, and he bends down to get a better look.

"Well, Well. Look what I've found," he says, the St. Christopher's medal swinging from his fingers.

Sam squints at it from the bed, he chuckles quietly, then his head falls back on the pillow. "Keep it," he says.

"Yeah, right. _Nobody_ will think it's strange that I'm wearin' your trinkets," he snorts. Without counting the fact that Tyler's been an insufferable git about the bloody thing ever since he lost it.

"I'm not saying you should wear it," Sam says. "Just keep it. You'll know what to do with it."

Here he goes again with all the mysterious stuff, and Gene opens his mouth to reply, but changes his mind and, cradling the medal into his palm, he goes to put it into his coat pocket.

When he turns around Sam is looking at him with a strange light in his eyes, and Gene's reminded once again that this is not a normal man he's dealing with, even without counting the queer thing. Sam is the most _unique_ person Gene knows and has known in his life.

And sometimes he's even afraid of him, because he's got a brilliant mind, but it's like a train with no brakes going at full speed, and there's no hope it's going to stop before the crash. Because not even three months ago Sam's pointed a gun at his head.

Some day somebody's gonna say something – maybe even that bird of his – and Sam will end up with the nutters. And Gene hopes he won't be there, because he doesn't know if he's more disgusted at the thought of Sam locked up or by the fact that sometimes he seriously thinks he should be.

Sam frowns up at him. "What is it?"

He shrugs and goes for truth. "I'm just wondering if you'll ever tell me about it."

Sam draws in a sharp breath, he rubs his face with both hands, then his neck. "Guv, I…" he sighs and lets his face fall back on the shoddy mattress. "I would gladly tell you, if I thought even for a moment you'd believe me."

And here he goes, Sam Tyler, self-centred prick, who thinks the universe is moving just for his pleasure.

"Why would I believe you if everything you say is just a pile of crap?" he retorts.

Tyler sighs his martyr sigh. "There you go, Guv. That's why I'm not gonna tell you anything."

"So what if I don't believe you?" Gene snorts. "You're always sayin' things. All the bloody time, as a matter of fact. And a lot of 'em are crap," he shrugs. "Sometimes I listen, though."

Sam shakes his head. "It's not that easy, I…" he abruptly stands up. "Look, Gene, I'll be gone in a few days, can't we just forget this and… I don't know. Not fight for once?" he says. "Because that's where this is going if we continue. And I'd really like to leave with some good, if not happy, memories of…" he gestures between them. "_This_."

That's right Sammy-boy, ignore it and it'll disappear. Gene is quite the expert on this, and it rarely works, if ever at all. But you get better at it after a while, the ignoring part, and maybe Tyler's right this time, and Gene only has to turn a blind eye to his nutty moments until Monday, until he becomes somebody else's problem.

And if Tyler wants to pretend that this is just two blokes bonking each other silly, he can get behind that plan. As he's already pointed out, Sam's a good shag.

Gene nods and walks to the table, sitting in one of the rickety chairs, he pats his belly and looks up at him, expectantly. "So, what's for dinner?"

Sam snorts, but goes to check his supplies and for the rest of the evening everything seems back to normal.

But some time in the middle of the night Sam gets up, quietly, trying not to wake him up. No use, though, he's been awake for quite a while now, trying to decide if he's a sissy as well.

He hears the rustle of clothes and when he opens his eyes he sees that Tyler is now wearing a shirt – Gene's maybe, he can't be too sure in the darkness. He hears bare feet pad quietly to the table, the sound of the bottle being opened, of Scotch being poured.

Gene closes his eyes and listens as Sam drinks the night away.

In the morning he finds Sam slumped on the table, asleep or unconscious, and he shakes him awake. Neither of them comments on the fact that the bottle is now empty.

*

*

*

*

Gene's been waiting for a repeat of Tyler's drunken ramblings of the other day, he's been waiting for all this to turn sour and ugly now that it's coming to an end. Ever since Parkman's arrived Sam's been spending all of his pub time with him, deep in conversation.

What they've been talking about, Gene doesn't know, but he can hazard some guesses. They've probably reached the 'How not to make your suspect cry when you question them' chapter in that Book they like so much up there in Hyde.

Even now, at his bloody farewell party, Tyler's busy yapping away with his mate and Gene has the nagging suspicion this is all a subtle plot schemed by the Super to make him go bonkers and resign, leaving his team in the hands of another bloody idiot like Litton.

Ray comes back from the board and hands him his darts.

He turns to look at the two love birds, as well. "Bloody poofters," he sneers, and Gene couldn't agree more. "Mark me words, Guv. They're gonna turn the station into a soddin' tea party," he takes aim and shoots, the dart lodges itself in the four points section, Ray curses.

Gene pats him on the shoulder. "You'll be luckier next time," he says, taking a step forward to throw his.

The dart bounces off the board and falls down, they both look at it for a moment. Gene considers all the pints and the chasers and he's prepared to admit, even if only to himself, that he might be slightly pissed right now.

Ray barks a loud laugh. "You'll be luckier next time, Guv," he smirks at him.

Bloody div.

Then his eyes go beyond Gene's shoulder and he narrows his eyes, there's only one person who can get that reaction out of Ray.

"Heads up," he says. "Here comes Smarty Pants," and Ray should work on his sarcasm, as well.

"Guv," says Gladys. "_Sergeant_," but Gene has no time for their little Mexican standoff, so he goes back to his game of darts.

Sam yelps and jumps as a dart goes flying through the air, only inches from his face. Uh, 24 points.

"Damn," he clicks his tongue. "Missed again."

Next to him Ray smirks, in front of him Tyler glares, but he suddenly seems to remember something and he shoots a glance in the direction of the bar. There's no one there, except Nelson.

"Lost your boyfriend, Gladys?" he asks, getting out his lighter and trying to light the damn fag he's had between his lips for quite some time now. Blasted thing won't stay still, though.

"He's gone to the loo," Sam replies, sighing and snatching the lighter from his hands.

"Hey!" he protests but watches, his eyes crossed, as the flame comes alive, and suddenly the fag is working. "_Hey_."

"There you go, Guv," Sam says, snapping closed the lighter and handing it back to him. "Can I have a word, please?" he glares at Ray. "In _private_."

Ray doesn't shift, though, and Gene waves at him. "I'm busy right now."

"You're playing darts. With _Ray_," Tyler says as if he were stupid and not just bladdered. He glances back at the bar, then, "it's important."

"Right," Gene says, pressing his lips together. "I can see that. Go back to your Hyde chap and leave me alone."

"Jesus, Guv, I-" but Parkman is back from the loo and his eyes are searching the room for Gladys, and it would be so bloody cute and sweet if didn't make him sick. "Shit."

Gene watches silently as Sam sighs and makes his way back to the bar, and there's been something not quite right in his voice, but Ray claps him on the shoulder and brings his attention back to the game.

Twenty minutes later he sees Tyler and Parkman leaving together, and something ugly and angry that he can't quite explain growls in his belly. Picturing the dartboard as Sam's face seems to help, though, and it feels even more satisfying when he wins the fiver from Ray.

Predictably, all the good humour gained thanks to the game and the subsequent round of pints is ruined once again by Gladys, even if he's not there in physical form he can annoy him from afar. Bloody phones.

The receiver is shoved under his face by an amused looking Nelson. "For you, mon brav."

"Gene," says Sam.

"I'm hangin' up," he replies and almost does, but the urgent way Sam's saying his name makes him hesitate. "_What_? And make it quick."

Tyler, of course, doesn't. "Look, I don't know why I'm here, right? In 1973, I mean."

"Stop right there, Sam," Gene hisses, and if the bloke weren't bloody daft, he'd be here, or they'd be somewhere, shagging. "This is your party, Gladys, where are you? Oh, _right_, bein' all chitty chatty with the new bloke. In fact, you hit it off awfully quickly, didn't you?"

There's a long silence on the other end of the phone, not even the sound of breathing, and for a moment he wonders if he's imagining the call.

"You're _jealous_?" Sam exclaims, but he doesn't sound amused, more like disbelieving.

"Disturbed. Disgusted. And to some extent, terrified," he snorts. "I keep picturing Hyde as a place full of nancy boys gettin' all excited over some poor bastard's spatters of blood and writing reports about it all day."

Sam sighs, and he can almost picture his face as he does that, it would be his 'I don't deserve this' face. Gene gets that a lot. "I think you're carrying it too far," he says.

"You probably wear pink dotted gloves to go over the crime scenes."

More silence, then, "I don't know how much time I've got, and I don't know where I'm going to be tomorrow, but-"

"You've got very little time if you go on makin' no bloody sense at all!" he exclaims, waving Nelson over for a refill. "And don't be an idiot. Tomorrow you'll be in Hyde, because you're _leaving_. Feelin' all happy now, don't you?"

"You wanted me to go!"

"And you didn't want to stay!" he yells in the receiver, and this conversation is turning him into a bloody pansy, damn Tyler and his namby-pamby stuff that's rubbed off on him. On the other hand, though, actually _bonking_ his DI may have increased the queer factor a bit.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ray frowning at him and next to him Chris looks away, guiltily.

Right.

"Go to hell, Tyler, and take Hyde with you," he says genuinely, and slams down the receiver.

Five seconds later the phone starts ringing again, but Gene ignores it and after a while it stops.

It doesn't ring again.

*

*

*

*

Monday is unusually slow.

Nobody's been whacked during the week-end and the only meaningful case is a robbery in a small shop, but Gene's nicked the tosser before ten, questioned him before eleven and got a confession before lunch, even if Chris has pulled a Tyler and taped the interview.

"That's how we get the job done _here_," he tells the replacement, because you never know when those Hyde Rules they seem to have inculcated in their heads are gonna come out to pester you to death.

Parkman nods. "Yes, sir."

He frowns. "What 'appened to your face?"

Parkman touches the bruise on his cheek and shakes his head. "It was Olivier earlier, when we arrested- _nicked_ him. He tried to escape."

He nods. "Then we shall add aggression of a police officer and resistance to his list," he claps him on the shoulder. "Well done, Parkman."

The replacement nods and goes off to his desk and Gene can't help it, but he doesn't like him. He was braced for another annoying, know-it-all, little bugger, but Parkman just nods and says 'Yes, sir' and does what Gene asks him to do. This seraphic rugby player doesn't sit quite right with him, there's something about him he can't explain. It must be Tyler's fault and all his talk of Hyde, because to listen to him you'd think Hyde is the heaven of paperwork and policing by the book, but it's not and he knows it, C Division is a place like any other.

Still.

He shrugs and he's about to go back to the office, when Miss Marple herself enters, carrying a very familiar piece of clothing. He strides towards her, and when she notices him, she stops.

Gene nods at the black leather in her arms. "What's that?" he asks, taking a drag from his fag.

"It's Sam's," she replies, but he _knows_ that, what he wants to know is why she's got it. "He left it at The Railway Arms last night. I went by his flat this morning to give it to him, but he didn't answer."

He frowns. "He's already left."

Cartwright nods and looks down all lost and sad like, and there's a reason why they don't make women detectives, them bloody sissy feelings.

He rolls his eyes and tugs at the jacket. "Give that to me."

She doesn't offer resistance and, with a creaking of leather, he goes to his office, the bird trailing silently behind him.

"Guv," she starts. "Do you think we...we'll ever see him again?"

Gene hangs the jacket behind the door and doesn't answer her. He goes to the desk and finds his Scotch.

"Of course we will," he lies.

Cartwright nods, but she doesn't seem too convinced, she's a bright girl, after all.

She leaves and when she closes the door behind her, he sees Tyler's jacket hanging there, and it's almost like Sam could come in any minute to grab it and put it on, before going down to the pub.

At five o'clock on the dot Gene downs the last Scotch before dinner, grabs his coat and drives straight home to the wife.

He doesn't miss Sam at all.

*

*

*

*

Tuesday starts like any other normal day. He gets up, has some eggs and tea for breakfast, goes to work.

They get a call around 9, somebody's whacked some bloke and shut him in the boot of a car.

Gene stuffs his team and the replacement into his Cortina and they go to the scene.

At precisely 9:27 this particular Tuesday stops being ordinary and becomes a very shitty day, possibly the shittiest day in Gene's life. Certainly, the shittiest Tuesday.

Gene shoves away the stuttering plod and walks to the heap of metal for which 'car' is a very loose term. He opens the boot and slams it down a second later, stumbling against it, leaning on it, suddenly dizzy.

Now he understands the shilly-shally plod of earlier, when he asked where the dead bloke was.

His hands grip the blue, rusty metal so hard it feels like his fingers are going to snap and bend backwards any moment.

"Guv," Ray asks as he ducks under the rope enclosing the crime scene. "Everything all right?"

"No," he says in a low voice and takes several deep breaths, suddenly short of air.

"Guv?"

He pulls away from the boot and squares his shoulders.

"I want the whole area sealed off," he says, "nobody goes near without my authorisation. I want forensics, I want _everybody_ to go through the scene with a comb. I want _evidence_."

"Sure, Guv," Ray nods slowly, frowning. "We do it Tyler's way," he snorts and Gene's head whips around at the mention of that name.

"Who's the stiff?" Ray asks pointing at the closed boot with his cigarette.

"It's Sam," Gene replies, and it kills him, as if denying it wouldn't make it real.

Ray's eyes widen and he goes to check, opening the boot a tad and peering inside. "Jesus," he says quietly, closing it and leaning against it with his hands, his head bent down, unconsciously mirroring Gene's earlier position.

"As soon as the coroner arrives I want you and Parkman to deal with," Sam, "_it_. Don't let Cartwright see him."

"Or Chris," Ray adds, flicking his fag away.

They both watch as it lands in the rubble, and after a moment Ray bends down to pick it up. "Sorry, Guv," he mutters, sounding genuine.

Ray's warmest display of affection towards Sam has been a nod, and now this behaviour, his shock, feel unnatural. Unnatural like Sam's body huddled in the cramped space is. His skin milk white, his eyes fixed and sightless.

It's _Sam_.

Sam's _dead_.

 

*

*

*

*

He has the keys, but he really doesn't think about it, his mind still blank. The door gives in under his weight, and when Gene strides into the flat – Chris, Cartwright and some PCs following him – nothing looks different.

The bed is unmade, there's an empty bottle of wine on the table, two glasses drying next to the sink.

He frowns, he doesn't remember using them.

"His clothes are still here," Cartwright says, checking the wardrobe.

"Looks like he didn't pack," Chris adds.

He shakes his head. "He didn't have the time," he takes a glass. "Somebody was here with him."

The meaning in his words is clear, and both of them take a sharp breath and divert their eyes. Chris starts picking at the bed covers, idly, evidently not knowing what to do.

"Get the science boys here," he tells him. Chris nods and scampers off.

The flat looks as if Sam could come back any minute, with a bag full of his weird food and protesting about his kicked in door. Gene slams the cupboards closed and goes to have a look in the bathroom. There's nothing there, though, except for the nearly new bottle of slick Sam bought the other day. Before he can think about it, he grabs it and puts it into his pocket.

"Guv!" Cartwright calls him, from her kneeling position near the table. She touches the wall and when she shows him her fingers the tips are stained, "It looks like blood," she says.

"It's fresh."

A thought pops up in his head, sinister and treacherous, and maybe Sam would still be alive if he'd gone home with him Sunday night.

Or if he'd listened to what he had to say on the phone.

Clenching his teeth so hard it hurts, he strides through the room and out of the flat, right to the first door he encounters down the corridor. He knocks fiercely on thin wood. It takes only a few moments for Mrs. Finley to open at his bellowed 'Police!'

She looks at him, a frown on her features, "Yes?" she asks, but her face clears a tad when Cartwright reaches his side and smiles politely at the old woman.

He takes out his badge. "DCI Hunt," he says, then points at Sam's still open door. "We're here about Sam Tyler," he says.

"That nice fellow, you mean?"

"He's dead," he says, and her face crumples.

"Oh," she murmurs. "He was a really nice bloke. Always greeted me, and he helped carrying me shopping bags up the stairs once or twice."

Right, Tyler the good Samaritan, with women of every age falling down at his feet. Gene can't figure why, really, he's- _was_ an annoying git most of the time.

"Would you mind if we asked some questions about Sam, Mrs. Finley?" Cartwright asks.

"Of course, come in," she says, coming away from the door. "I'll put on the kettle."

"Guv!" Chris calls from behind them, as he takes the last steps of the staircase. "Forensics will be here as soon as possible."

He nods and points at the PCs still standing outside Sam's open door. "You stay there, nobody gets in!" They nod. "Good."

He enters Mrs. Finley's house right after Chris, and he goes to settles on the sofa. When the tea is brewed, he accepts a cup with a nod of his head. "All right," he starts, beside him Chris is already with notepad in hand, ready to take notes. "Have you noticed anything strange lately?"

Mrs. Finley frowns and shakes her head. "I don't know," she says. "We had different hours. He was either coming home very late or leaving very early."

"Coppers never sleep, love," he says, and at her surprised face. "You didn't know?"

"He never told me," she frowns. "Well, that explains it, then."

"Explains what?"

"Sometimes I was woken at night by somebody knocking very loudly on his door. I never went to check, but I'm sure it was a man," she nods. "He yelled, and once I heard a terrible sound, like a bang. The morning after I saw Mr. Tyler putting up his door. The man had kicked it in."

Well, that sounds familiar. Both Cartwright and Chris are sneaking glances at him, and there's a small grin playing on the bird's lips.

"He always stayed the night," she says, and Chris almost drops his cuppa. "Well, if he left, I never heard him."

He clears his voice. "Right, Mrs. Finley. What about the last few days? From Saturday on?"

"I wouldn't know," she shakes her head. "I was at me daughter's house this weekend."

Gene sighs and rubs his face. He stands up, "Thanks, love."

"You should ask Jack, down the hall," she says. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you, Mr. Hunt."

He nods and leaves, stopping just outside to wait for Chris and the plonk.

"Right," he tells them, when they arrive. "Let's question all the neighbours. And I want a door to door, as well," he adds. "If he was killed here, they had to carry the body to the car and then drive where we found it. Him."

They nod, silent, and they look as if they might be sick. Gene doesn't really blame them.

*

*

*

*

When Gene arrives just outside the morgue he finds all of them there, the replacement as well, some staring off ahead, some at their shoes. Chris is sniffing silently and Cartwright's eyes are teary.

"What are you lot doin' here?" he barks.

Parkman clears his throat. "Uh, what about the autopsy, Sir?" he asks, and Gene still can't think of 'Sam' and 'autopsy' in the same sentence. "We should-"

"You should get some bloody work done!" he exclaims. "We don't need five people watching a blasted autopsy!"

"But, Guv-" Cartwright starts.

"Not now, love," he cuts her off. "Almost one day's gone by and what've we got?" They're all silent. "That's right! And you know what, I don't think we'll get any suggestions from DI Tyler now, so why don't you all get a bloody move on and get some results?"

"Guv!" the plonk's head snaps up and she's really lucky to be a woman, otherwise he'd have served her a knuckle sandwich for her pig-headed insubordination a long time ago.

"Don't argue, _WDC Cartwright_," he says lowly. "Do you or do you not want to catch the fucking bastard?" he yells, and she nods, her eyes wide. "Then do the bloody job!"

And Gene wants to get the bastard, he wants that very much. He wants to squeeze his hands, his fingers around the fucker's neck, he wants to kill him slowly. He wants to bash his head against the desk in Lost and Found, again and again, and _again_. Until the bones crack, until the brains come dribbling out. He can already feel the blood staining his hands, and he doesn't care if revenge won't make him feel better in the end, because right now it's something he can look forward to, every time he closes his eyes and sees Sam's empty gaze.

They leave one by one, Chris for last. He lingers in the doorway, shuffling his feet, and glancing up at him.

"What is it?" he sighs.

"Uh, Guv…" Chris starts, then clears his voice and looks straight at him, serious and earnest, "I'm sorry."

He raises an eyebrow at him.

"He told me, when I- when you-" Chris blushes and Gene comes away from the wall, straightening. "He told me it'd be over soon, but I'd never thought…" he trails off as he looks in the direction of the morgue.

"Yeah, me neither," he sniffs. "What are you doin' still here? Haven't you got something to do?"

Chris gives a curt nod and finally leaves.

He doesn't really want to go inside, he knows what's waiting for him on the other side of that door, but he _has_ to. He smokes three fags and drinks half of one of his hip flasks before he's able to push open the door.

Sam's there, on the slab, and Oswald is holding the scalpel hovering just above his breast bone, and he's looking at him, unsure. "Maybe you should wait outside," he says, his voice low.

Gene shakes his head no, and barely manages to keep his lunch – Scotch and, well, more Scotch – when the scalpel makes the first cut, sliding easily over Sam's flesh like a warm knife through butter.

He's seen Sam wearing so many different expressions, so many moods. He's seen him angry, smiling, crying, even happy sometimes. He's seen him clothed, he's seen him naked, he's seen him running, walking, laughing, he's seen him during sex.

He's seen Sam, and this isn't him, this is just a- a _piece of meat_ on a slab, being cut open, there's nothing of Sam here. But it feels like it's Gene himself the one being cut open.

Gene trails his fingers slowly over Sam's forearm, down to his wrist, his hand, his fingers.

Sam's knuckles are bruised.

"He must have put up a fight before…" the doctor trails off, and Gene nods, because that's his Sam, always fighting, stubborn bastard, fighting over everything.

The doctor goes back to cutting Sam open and Gene doesn't watch and pretends he's looking for evidence, but his sight's blurred and the hand in his is cold, the fingers rigid. He knows Sam's hands, he knows his long fingers, and these aren't them, some bastard's taken them away.

Gene drops the hand abruptly and makes for the door, barely reaching the loo before he throws up everything he has in him, even what feels like last week's dinner.

*

*

*

*

Gene rubs his face and takes a deep breath before he gets out of his office to face his team, all huddled up in the squad room. They've got lost expressions on their faces, and he knows they're looking up at him for guidance, and reassurance maybe, but so far all he's got it's two sleepless nights and the urge to smash something every time he looks at Sam's jacket hanging behind his door.

His hand on the knob, he closes his eyes and opens the door. As he's guessed, they all turn to him, expectantly, and he doesn't disappoint them. Hands on his hips, he wears his 'I'm not impressed with you lot' face and addresses the room at large. "All right, what about the door to door enquires?"

Nobody answers, and he slams a fist on the nearest desk. "_Well_?!" he bellows, and only then Chris raises timidly his hand.

"Uh, Guv…" he starts, "we've got a problem there…"

Gene grimaces because it's not like they need _more_ problems, now. "What problem?" he asks.

Parkman takes pity on Chris and intervenes, leaning forward. "We don't have photos of him, Sir," he says. "To show around."

He frowns. "That's not possible," he says, and tries to think of an occasion, a birthday or whatever, where some pictures might have been taken. Nothing comes to mind. "What about those from the Gazette thing? Those for Jackie Queen's article?"

Cartwright shakes her head. "I've already asked, but they haven't got a clear shot of him."

He nods. "Call Hyde, then," he says. "Ask for his family, his friends, whatever," he sniffs and look sideways. "We should alert somebody for the… funeral, anyway."

An uncomfortable silence falls in the room, somebody clears their throat, somebody else shifts on their feet.

"What about the car?" he asks, and everybody looks slightly more relieved to have something to answer to that.

"Belongs to a John Craig. He has some previous," Parkman says, handing him a sheet of paper.

Gene slaps it away. "What previous?"

Parkman reads the sheet. "Nothing much, a couple of burglaries."

He nods, coming away from the desk. "Where's he, then?"

Ray stands up from his chair. "Lost and Found, Guv."

"Good."

*

*

*

*

"I don't know! I swear!" Craig exclaims again, his voice clogged by the flow of blood still running down his broken nose. "I was drunk!" he says, spitting blood and saliva down his chin, on the table. Tears, as well. He's crying, the _bastard_.

"You were drunk!" Gene yells. "And you killed him!"

"_No_!" Craig shakes his head. "I was at me mate's birthday, down at the pub!"

"When?"

"S-Sunday!" Craig replies, and Ray has to grab him by the collar and tug to prevent him from falling off the chair when Gene slams his hands down on the table.

"Sunday!" Gene repeats. "And your car was stolen! How unfortunate! How _convenient_."

"I swear!" Craig cries again, and Gene's stopped counting, but he's sure they must have set a record.

"Then why didn't you call the police?"

"Because I was so arseholed I didn't even notice until Monday!" he exclaims. "And it's not like you could do much anyway, innit?" he continues, then spits on the ground, blood mostly. "Except beatin' me up, of course!"

Ray yanks him up, pulling him against the back of the chair. "Don't talk that way to the Guv, you useless tosser!"

"I didn't even know him!" Craig continues. "Why would I want to kill him?"

And right now, Gene is wondering the same, because this isn't Sam's killer, is it? This is just a daft pillock that was too pissed to notice his car had been nicked. Craig spits blood again, and Ray looks up at Gene, waiting for his decision. He shakes his head, that would be way too easy, and with Sam it's never easy.

The door opens. "Guv!" Cartwright calls him, striding in and coming to his side. When she sees Craig she grimaces and turns disapproving eyes on him.

_Great_, so she's even learnt The Look from Tyler.

He sighs and rolls his eyes. "What do you want, Flash Knickers?"

She grabs his arm and leads him away, where Ray and Craig can't hear them. "I don't think that's right, Guv," she says.

"When I want to know yer opinion, I'll ask for it," he barks.

"With all due respect, Guv, I don't think Sam would have liked-"

"Sam is lying on a bloody slab in the morgue with his throat slit from ear to ear!" he shouts. "I don't think he likes much now, doesn't he?!"

Cartwright gapes at him, speechless.

"What do you want?"

She blinks and shakes her head, lowering her eyes. "Chris. He called Hyde."

*

*

*

*

"_What_?"

Chris cringes at his shout. "I- It's true, Guv," he stammers.

"That's _not_ possible! Give me the bloody phone," he commands, but snatches the receiver out of Chris' hand before he can do anything.

He grabs the piece of paper in his hands as well and dials the number. After three rings the desk sergeant picks up. "Hi, love," he says. "I'm DCI Hunt, A Division. Put me on the phone with whoever worked with DI Sam Tyler, there."

"Are you lot daft?" she says into his ear, rather bored, and she sounds so much like Phyllis it's actually kind of creepy. "I already told that DC Skelton that there's no Sam Tyler here, never has been. We've got Tylers and we've got Sams, but not the two of them together."

"Listen, love," he starts. "Me bloody DI came over from Hyde and there's no way you haven't heard of him. Scrawny, short hair, annoying as hell."

"You've just described half of the people who work here," she replies. "_Sir_."

"Right, listen to me-"

"No _you_ listen to me," she cuts him off. "I don't care if you lot in A Division have the time to make stupid games. I don't want to waste my time over an imaginary DI. Good day."

She hangs up.

Gene stares incredulously at the receiver for a long moment, then he turns to Chris. "She hung up on me," he says.

Chris shrugs. "Told you, Guv."

He slams the receiver down. "Find me Tyler's transfer papers."

Ten minutes later Chris comes back, a folder in his hands and toilet paper stuck to his right shoe, trailing behind him. Gene eyes it, frowning, but wisely decides not to ask about the latter. He takes the folder from Chris. "Do we know somebody who works in Hyde?"

Chris frowns. "The Bo- I mean, DI Parkman," he says after a moment.

Gene shakes his head. "No, somebody else. Fletcher, maybe," he points at him. "That mate of Ray with the daft name, Percy something or other."

Chris nods thoughtfully. "I'll have to ask Ray."

"Fine, you go ask him, I'll deal with this," he says as he reads through Sam's transfer sheet. "'I hereby confirm blah, blah, blah' Ah, there it is!"

He takes the phone and composes the number again. "Hello, love," he says as soon as she answers. "It's me again!"

"Let me guess," she says. "You're looking for DI Tyler?"

"Nope," he replies. "DCI Frank Morgan, you heard of him?"

Two minutes later the bloke arrives to the phone. "Frank Morgan speaking."

"DCI Hunt, A Division," he replies. "You approved DI Sam Tyler's transfer here."

There's a pause at the other end. "I did. But I thought he was supposed to come back here. I've sent DI Parkman as a replacement."

So he's the one with all the legions of nancy, science-adoring DIs. Gene pictures him as some spotless sod, all perfectly dressed, shoes polished and not even a speck of dirt on his fingers. He probably has a distinguished moustache. He probably _combs_ it.

"Yeah," he says. "He was supposed to. He's-" he swallows, trying to force the words from his clenched teeth. "He's dead."

There's silence from the other end of the phone, then, "he's… dead?" Morgan asks, as if he's not really surprised. "That's very…_unfortunate_."

His hand on the receiver squeezes so hard it starts to hurt, the other crumples up the papers. "I'd say," he snarls, and slams down the receiver.

"Soddin' bastard!" he yells, yanking the phone up and hurling it through the room, and Lytts manages to dodge it just in time.

Gene storms into his office and goes straight for the Scotch. Only when he's got the bottle in hand, though, he realizes he's picked up two glasses as well. He glares at them, but with a shrug he fills them both. He downs them quickly, one after the other, not really tasting the burning liquid as it goes down his throat and when they're empty, he slams them down on the desk, maybe with more force than necessary. And there's a blinding fury burning and stirring inside him and it's something he can't understand, because more than that bastard DCI, that bastard murder, he's angry at _Tyler_. At Sam.

Because how can a man who doesn't exist be in so many places at once?

He's in the transcripts of the taped interviews scattered all over Gene's desk, he's in the new filing system, he's in Chris' new-found and still improving tidiness and multi-tasking skills, he's in Annie's presence in CID, he's in the forgotten leather jacket hanging in his office.

He's in the two glasses of Scotch on his desk.

He sweeps his hand across the desktop and shoves the glasses to the ground. They shatter on impact.

There's a knock on the door and Cartwright pokes her head in without waiting for an answer.

"Are you all right, Guv?" she asks, quietly.

He sniffs and sits down on his chair. "No," he replies, truthfully. "Sam bloody Tyler doesn't exist. But his body is still down in the morgue."

She nods. "I was thinking…"

"What?"

"You remember the Vic Tyler case, Guv?"

"Yeah," he frowns and sits up at that. "You reckon they could be relatives?"

"He said- Sam said Vic Tyler was his…" she trails off and looks at him, "his _father_, but-"

"He was married, wasn't he?" he says, and stands up. "Give me the address."

*

*

*

*

"Hello, love," he says and shows a lot of teeth as soon as she opens the door. "DCI Hunt, remember me?"

Ruth Tyler frowns up at him, "Yes," she nods, then continues more sternly. "I_ remember_ you. And if this is about my husband, you're wasting your time." Oh, the bird has a nasty temper. "I haven't seen him and even if I had I certainly wouldn't tell _you_."

He shrugs and tosses his fag to the ground. "Well, that's too bad, love," he pushes against the door, forcing her to take a step back and he shoulders in. "Can I come in? Thank you."

He sniffs and takes in the house, nothing much seems to have changed from his last visit here. Not that he would care, anyway.

"Why are you here?" she asks, closing the front door and leaning back against it.

Gene says nothing and just takes out a fag.

Her face suddenly changes. "No. _No_!" she exclaims, bringing her hands to her mouth, her eyes widening with fear. "You've found him! Something's happened! Tell me!"

He snorts. "So _now_ you wanna talk," he puts the lighter away and goes to the living room, sitting down on the sofa, making himself at home.

She's followed him, her face still upset, her hands slightly trembling.

Gene sighs. "This isn't about your husband, love," he tells her. "But it's about another Tyler."

She seems instantly relieved, but she frowns, confused. "What are you-" then her face clears and she sits down. "_Oh_, you mean DI Tyler."

"Yeah," he nods. "He seemed to be quite… taken with you, _Mrs._ Tyler."

"There's nothing between me and him!" she exclaims,. "He is-"

He cuts her off. "He _was_. He's dead, love. Murdered in fact."

She blinks at him, her mouth opening and closing several times. "I'm… sorry. I…" she stands up, her hands smoothing down the wrinkles in her dress. "Would you like some tea?"

Gene nods and puffs at his fag calmly, watching as the smoke curls in the air. She comes back five minutes later, with the tea and some biscuits on a tray. She pours the tea for both of them and then sits back in her chair, sipping thoughtfully.

"I don't know what to say," she admits, after a while.

Gene puts down his tea and looks at her. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"At the wedding reception, when we…When Vic…" she trails off and Gene nods.

"Is he- Was he a relative of your husband?"

She shakes her head. "No, I had never met him before," she shrugs, the cup tinkling softly against the plate. "He just- Actually, I found him quite…"

He snorts, because as much as Sam charmed all the birds, they all seemed to think that of him at some point or another. "Weird? Barmy?"

"_Morbid_," she frowns. "He scared me," she looks up at Gene with an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry I don't mean to be disrespectful, but…"

He takes a deep breath. "Well, he was-"

He's interrupted by the sound of light steps and, a moment later, a small boy comes running into the room. He looks around four, maybe five.

"Mummy! Where's my-" he stops when he sees Gene and frowns at him, and that confused expression is vaguely familiar.

"Mummy is busy right now," she tells him.

The boy is still looking at him, though. "Who are you?" he asks.

"Sammy!" his mother exclaims.

Well, well, isn't he a forward little fellow? "I'm a copper," he smirks.

The boy's whole face changes into a look of wonder, his eyes widened, his mouth round, "_Police_?!" he exclaims, excited. "I wanna be a policeman!"

Gene frowns, an uncomfortable feeling settling at the pit of his stomach. "Oh, you do?"

His mother smiles indulgently and nods. "He's already arrested Billy Sheen three times for kicking the neighbour's cat."

"Relentless, aren't ya?" must be the name. "Keep up with that and you'll be a DCI before you're thirty-five."

Little Sammy seems delighted at that. "Really?" he exclaims, then frowns. "What's a DCI?"

"That's what I am," he says, taking out his badge and showing it to him. "See?"

The boy comes closer to look at it, his small fingers touching the metal and brushing against his. He sniffs and stands up quickly, that uncomfortable feeling back at full force.

"I have to go, now. Mrs. Tyler," he says, nodding to her, then he pats down on the boy's head. "Sammy-boy."

She follows him to the door, the frown still on her face. "What did you want to ask me? About…DI Tyler?"

He shakes his head. "You've already answered."

He turns to leave, as she holds the door open for him, when he hears quick steps, and the boy collides with his leg.

"Mister! Mister Police DCI!"

His mother takes him back. "Leave Mr. Hunt alone, Sammy, he's leaving."

The kid tries to squirm away. "You dropped this!" he exclaims.

He extends his hand, and a well-known chain is dangling from the small fingers. He takes a deep breath and crouches down, on eye-level with the kid. He opens his palm and the St. Christopher medal drops down. "Thanks," he says.

The kid nods. "You're welcome!" he exclaims.

Gene still hasn't stood up, though, and he stares at the medal, a thought forming in his head.

"You like it?" he asks, before he can make himself think about it.

The boy frowns as if this were a very serious matter, then nods. "It's shiny."

"You keep it, kid, then," he says and stands up abruptly.

"Really?" he exclaims, looking up at Gene, then at his mother. "Really? Can I?"

She frowns, then looks at Gene. "I'm not sure…"

Gene shrugs. "Go on," he says, then he points a finger at the kid. "Now, you be careful with that, it belonged to a friend of mine, name of Sam."

The kid's eyes become round in wonder. "Like me!" he exclaims, but then he frowns. "He don't want it?"

"He doesn't-" he clears his voice. "He gave it to me, before he… left."

The boy nods seriously as he studies the golden chain. "My daddy left, too. Mummy said he had to," he raises his eyes to look at Gene. "Sam had to?"

"He didn't say. He had to go back home."

"He's home then?"

Bloody hell.

"I don't know," he swallows. "I hope so."

And this boy looks nothing like Sam – _his_ Sam – but his movements, his gestures, no matter how immature or embryonic still, they're _familiar_. The air suddenly closing on him, Gene gets out of the house as fast as he can without actually running, and as he steps outside in the sunlight he's already breathing easier.

"You bloody idiot," he curses himself as he strides back to the car, because it's not possible, this isn't- It's just a coincidence, how many Tylers are there in the phone book anyway? It's all fault of Sam's ramblings and his nutty trips, and now that he's- that he's dead, it's messing with Gene's head.

Because it's just _not possible_.

But his vision is blurry, his eyes pricking, and his hands tremble slightly as he lights a fag. When he turns to look at the blue door, there's the kid on the threshold, little Sammy, and he waves at him and smiles, and that smile-

God, Gene _knows_ that smile.

*

*

*

*

He's about to start the car, when Phyllis calls him on the radio. "Come in, Alpha One," he answers, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning back against the car seat.

"Ray's here, Guv," she says.

He nods, even though they can't see him. "Put him on."

"Guv," comes Ray's voice, slightly breathless. "I've asked Percy. About Tyler."

"Well?"

"Never been Sam Tylers in Hyde, Guv," Ray tells him. "But there was one Sam working with DCI Morgan."

He groans. "You want to keep me 'ere the whole day, Sergeant?" he barks. "Out with it!"

"Name's Sam Williams, DI," Ray says. "He described him to me, and…" Ray trails off.

"And?" Gene prompts, even though he knows what the answer's gonna be.

"It's our Sam, Guv," Ray says.

Gene closes his eyes and leans his head back. Sam Williams, then.

"He also told me that there's a rumour going around Hyde."

"What rumour?"

"Percy told me- He told me that he thought Williams was undercover as Tyler," he says. "To bring you down, Guv."

"Bullshit!" he yells in the receiver, slamming it down and effectively cutting off the conversation.

Sam Williams. Sam Tyler is Sam Williams, and Sam Tyler, their Sam, _his_ Sam doesn't exist. But it can't be, Sam couldn't have been so good an actor, and he wouldn't have strived to make them better coppers if all he wanted to do was to bring them down, would he? It couldn't have been all an act, not Sam's relentless, not his passion, not his kisses. Gene can't believe that, he trusted Sam, it took a while, but in the end he trusted him, following his instincts, and they're never wrong. And he knows on some level Sam trusted him, as well.

And maybe Sam Tyler doesn't exist, but he knows the bloke he's met, the bloke he's trusted wasn't _this_ Sam Williams, either.

He raises his head and his eyes go to the blue door, now closed.

And maybe Sam Tyler is from the future.

And maybe Gene Hunt's finally gone bonkers.

*

*

*

*

When he enters the Railways Arms, there's nothing really different, just a subtle shift from the usual air of high spirits you can find in any pub, to hushed voices and downcast eyes.

And like in CID, there's an empty seat beside him at the bar, and the absence has now become some sort of _presence_ onto itself.

And it's late and he's not making any sense at all, losing himself after some stupid philosophical crap about empty spaces or something. He usually leaves all the stuff that needs big words to be defined to-

He needs a drink.

Nelson lays the glass down in front of him, then looks at the stool next to him.

Just an empty space.

"Sam won't come, then?" Nelson asks.

And Gene knows that Nelson knows that Sam was supposed to leave yesterday, for _Hyde_.

But Nelson seems to know _everything_ as well, and Gene could bet his right leg and win that the crazy Jamaican isn't talking about a bloody transfer.

"No," he replies and sips at his Scotch.

Parkman sits down next to him, and signals for a pint to Nelson. And this is bloody fitting, isn't it? The replacement filling up all the holes. Gene looks at him up and down for a moment before returning to his drink. He says nothing.

"Sir," Parkman starts, then, "Guv."

"What?"

"This isn't good for the team, Sir," he says and for a fleeting moment he wants to smash his face in, but Parkman's words are quiet and dull, they're not heated, or accusing, they're not trying to get a rise out of him, they're not challenging.

"The… team?" he repeats, thoughtfully and clicks his tongue. "What, pray tell me, do you know about the team? You've been 'ere not even a week and you're talking about _the team_?"

And _that_ seems to get a rise out of him, he frowns deeply. "Well, for starters I know that this isn't good."

"So you say," he replies. "I heard you the first time. What is 'this'? I'm 'fraid I left my mind-readin' hat at home."

Parkman shakes his head and mutters. "Sam warned me about this."

"Don't you say his fucking name!" he hisses, his hand shooting out to grab his lapels. "Don't _you_ say _his_ name!"

Gene is dimly aware of the eyes that are now watching the scene, frowning, but he doesn't care, because nobody should say that name with that bloody nonchalance, as if it's worth nothing. Because it's not, it's really worth nothing, and Gene doesn't like the reminder. Sam Tyler doesn't exist, Sam Tyler is a bloody con man, and who knows what his real name is. Was.

Williams, maybe. Maybe not. And he could say it dozens of times – Sam Tyler, Sam Tyler, _Sam Tyler_ – and it still would be worth _nothing_.

But somehow he can't say those words, because if they take away 'Sam Tyler', what is he gonna call him? A copper? A mate? Some bloke he used to shag? A nutter obsessed with science who liked loud music? People aren't bloody reports, you can't write a description, sign it, stamp it and file it. You at least need a name to put on the label. And Sam has none.

"This is what I'm talking about!" Parkman says, and takes his hand away from the jacket. "You alternate between acting like you don't give a shit and behaving like a lunatic!" he takes a deep breath, then, "I understand what you're doing, you're just being strong for them because you're the boss. But right now I think they just need to see that you're grieving with them."

"What are you, a bloody shrink?" Gene snorts. "So what, I should go and hold their hands and act like a queer or worse, a bloody twelve year old girl?" he shakes his head. "No, we don't do things that way here. I'll tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna get the bastard, we're gonna make him pay, then we come down the pub and toast to the memory of a man who's _never existed_!"

He's shouting now, and even Nelson seems to have lost all of his Jamaican charm or whatever it is.

"This is precisely what I've been trying to tell you, Sir," Parkman goes on, all calm and relentless, the bastard. "There're five stages in the grieving process, right now you're going through anger."

"And when I get to number five I win a bloody toaster?"

The replacement gives up at last and stops annoying him to go back to his pint with a long-suffering sigh, and Gene thinks he'll finally be able to finish his Scotch.

"I was wondering…"

Of course _not_.

"Maybe you just need a fresh set of eyes," Parkman says.

"I'm perfectly happy with the one I have, thank you very much."

"No, I mean…" he continues, then frowns. "with Tyler's case."

Gene sits up at that, but says nothing.

"You're all personally involved in this case. I'm the only one here who could maybe distance himself and see the bigger picture," he says. "I'll take a look at all the reports."

Gene snorts. "Thinking outside the box," apparently they have _lots_ of them bloody boxes in Hyde.

"Uh, yes sir. Exactly."

He nods, absently, and goes back to his Scotch, draining it and calling Nelson over for a refill.

"So?"

He rubs his face, and this is Sam, and they're going nowhere right now. "Whatever," he says.

Parkman nods and finally leaves with his pint.

A new glass of Scotch appears in his sight, beyond it Nelson is nodding wisely. "Sometimes, we realize what we had only when we lose it."

Gene snorts. "I know _exactly_ what I had."

It's that bloody prick Tyler that didn't.

All whining and moaning about wanting to go 'home'. And when he finally gets what he wants he moans and whines because he wants to stay. 'Things have changed' he's said, and maybe they have, and maybe they haven't. Mostly Sam's kept on whining.

And now he's gone, for good, just like he said, he's _disappeared_, and he can't shake the feeling that Sam _knew_ all along. And maybe Gene could have stopped it, and maybe Sam could have been _here_ right now. Or he'd still be dead, because Sam's made a lot of enemies in his short time in A Division, but at least Gene would have carried the weight of all this empty air a tad better.

Or maybe he wouldn't, because after all it's still _empty_ air. He's well acquainted with guilt, and he knows that it slowly eats away at your insides, at your mind, until you don't know which way is up and which is down any more, until you don't care.

"Guv…" says Cartwright, behind him.

Bloody hell, can't he even drink a bleeding Scotch by himself?

He downs the Scotch in one quick move, then he turns and grabs the bird's arm, pulling her outside.

"I miss the bloody sod, too," he says, and frowns, because he certainly didn't mean to say that.

Cartwright blinks up at him.

Well, now that he's here. "So don't go and think I don't give a shit."

"We know, Guv," she says, nodding. "We all miss him. Even Ray."

And now that they're done with the soft things, he can move to more pressing matters. "Now," he starts, lighting a fag, "tell me _everything_ you know."

She frowns at that. "What about?"

"About Sam."

"Well," she clears her throat. "He is- _was_ a good copper. And a good cook."

"I'm not writing his bloody eulogy!" he exclaims, because really, a good cook? He may have been a good cook, but he was also a bloody annoying cook, 'Eat this Gene, it's good for you', 'Eat that Guv, it's got fibres.' "I know all about your little talks about the," he wiggles his fingers, "_future_. So tell me."

She frowns and looks down. "At first I thought it was just to make himself sound interesting. Mysterious, you know," she says. "But he seemed to really _believe_ what he was saying."

"Well, he was missing some important parts upstairs, that he was," he nods. "What I want to know is has he ever told you about leaving, or disappearing or something?"

She shrugs. "He was always saying he wanted to go home, that he was sick of 1973," then softly. "That this, _we_ weren't real."

He nods again, because Sam never told him explicitly about this, even when he asked, but he's gathered rumours and voices here and there, about his nutty moments, and his outbursts.

She looks up, then, straight at him. "Why are you asking me about this, Guv?"

Gene sighs. "Because up until Sunday he kept saying that he was gonna go away like it was the end of the world," he rubs his face. "At the time he's thought it was just Gladys being Gladys, but now…I'm wondering."

*

*

*

*

Gene looks down at Sam's face.

The lights are off, and if he squints slightly he can almost imagine he's just sleeping.

Until he notices the mess that is his throat, of course. He takes the edge of the sheet and pulls it up, to cover his chin, his mouth.

Sam looks just about to wake up, but he's cold as ice.

"Where are you now?" he asks in the silence of the morgue, even thought he knows the answer won't come.

"Were you even here?"

*

*

*

*


	2. Chapter 2

_Charge to two hundred. Clear._

Sam hears the beep of the machines, he hears the doctors, and suddenly he's gasping for air, re-emerging from the dark silence he's fallen into.

He coughs, his throat raw and dry as if he hasn't been drinking for weeks. He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelashes brush against a rough material, and he can feel something, a light weight, covering him. It's a sheet, he discovers, and when he raises a hand and pulls it down, he's staring at a vaguely grey ceiling.

He knows that ceiling.

He's confused as to why he's looking at it, though.

His back is killing him, and he sits up. Apparently he's been lying on a slab in the morgue, completely naked, his butt freezing where it touches the cold metal. He racks his brain, trying to spark a memory as to why he's here, but nothing comes to mind, he's just cold and nursing a massive headache.

If he's got pissed at the pub and one of the guys has thought this would be a brilliant idea…it's probably been Ray's, anyway. Sam is so going to kick his arse.

He slides off the slab and wraps the sheet more tightly around his shoulders, it's cold and the fact that he's barefoot and wearing nothing but his birthday suit certainly doesn't help any.

First step, find some clothes. Preferably his.

On the coroner's desk he spots a bag that seems to contain a familiar looking shirt, he reaches for it and opens it. There are his trousers as well, and everything is marked as evidence. When Sam takes out the shirt and unfolds it things suddenly go from slightly confusing to very disturbing.

On the front of his favourite pale shirt there's a large, brown stain. He can't tell for sure, but he's got a feeling it might be blood. Okay, the joke's gone too far.

"_His heart stopped for a minute and a half, Mrs. Tyler_," a voice says. "_He's stable for now, but another crisis like that could be fatal if we don't find what caused it_."

The sheet slips from his grasp, and he lets the shirt fall as he tries to cover himself again. Thus engaged, he can't do nothing but stand there, frozen, when the voices coming from the corridor get closer, and Gene and the pathologist enter the room.

"I want to-" Gene trails off as he notices the now empty slab, then his eyes travel the room and come to rest right on Sam, who's still clutching the sheet to his chest.

"Uh," he says, attempting a smile, "hey, Guv?"

Gene pales considerably and he looks just a moment away from a heart attack. Sam guesses it has something to do with the fact that maybe he's not really expected to walk around.

His Guv turns his head to Oswald, though his eyes are still on Sam, and he gestures vaguely. "Now, I may've had a tad more single malt than usual, but damn if that's not me DI."

Oswald nods slowly, and his widened eyes are the most expressive emotion – if not the only one – Sam's ever seen on his face.

"All right," Gene clears his voice. "Last time I saw him, he was _dead_."

"Apparently," and Sam can't help it, really. "The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

Gene nods curtly, then takes the steps that separate them and punches him in the face.

*

*

*

*

Sam adjusts the ice bag against the bruise that's starting to bloom on his left cheek and sighs. Gene could have refrained from resolving issues with violence as usual. Not that he expected a breathtakingly passionate kiss with the sun setting in the background, but he's been dead until five minutes ago, and a warm welcome would have been nice, for God's sake. He could even settle for lukewarm.

On his part, he thinks he might be taking the situation too well. Maybe he's in shock.

They're still in the morgue, the door now locked. He's once again sitting on the slab, Gene pacing back and forth in the middle of the room, stopping from time to time to look at him, as if to check he's not vanished, or died again. Oswald is at his desk, and for the past fifteen minutes he's been going over the autopsy report, muttering different variations of 'he was dead' at irregular intervals.

He shifts, trying to find a better position so that he'll be able to feel his bum again. He hasn't moved in a long time and the fact that he's still bollock naked under the light sheet and sitting on cold metal certainly doesn't help any.

"Okay," he says. "I need clothes."

Gene sweeps his gaze from his head down to his toes, as if he's only now realized that Sam's virtually naked.

"Obviously," Sam continues, when Gene turns to look at his trousers and shirt on the coroner's desk. "I can't wear those, they're evidence." Gene rolls his eyes. "There's a box with my personal effects in my locker, with a change of clothes. I meant to clear it on Monday, but…"

Gene stiffens and nods. "I'll get Cartwright to bring them."

He frowns. "What're you gonna tell her?"

"That you're cold."

"I'm dead, Guv," he says.

"No, you're not."

"Well, not _now_," he concedes, "but I was until half an hour ago. How are we going to break the news to her? And to the others?"

"We'll figure it out."

"Guv…"

Gene points two fingers at him. "Not now, Tyler," he hisses. "Right now I'm _very_ angry at you."

"As if that's news," he crosses his arms over his chest, or tries to, the sheet keeps slipping down, threatening to expose him. Well, it's not like the present company hasn't seen him naked, already. Oswald's even seen him on the _inside_.

He shudders.

Gene claps his hands together, apparently having reached a solution. "All right," he says, drawing the attention of both him and the coroner. "You're still dead, for now."

Sam rolls his eyes. "_Brilliant_ plan, Guv!" he exclaims cheerily, then points at the slab he's sitting on, "where's my body?"

"This conversation is surreal," Oswald says, getting up. "Yesterday I had your heart in my _hand_!"

He swallows, feeling queasy, and judging by Gene's slightly greenish face he doesn't feel much better. Sam lays a hand on his chest. "Nope. Still beating," he says, and he's got no scars, either from the... murder, or the autopsy. It's as if he's completely regenerated. It's just as well, actually, he really doesn't feel like starring in a Romero film, this has already surpassed the willing suspention of disbelief as far as he's concerned.

Oswald seems about to faint. "I'm going for a kip. Maybe I'll wake up and find this is all a dream."

Gene and Sam watch him as he wobbles to the door, unlocks it and disappears outside.

"Clothes," Sam repeats, snapping his fingers. "My bollocks are about to fall off."

Gene raises an eyebrow at him. "And we don't want that, do we?"

*

*

*

*

They are sitting in the interview room. The _actual_ interview room, the one that never gets used as suspects are brought to the Lost and Found for questioning, because of the 'thick walls'. Gene has assured him nobody ever comes down here.

He leans back against the chair, arms crossed over his chest, and looks at Gene expectantly. His Guv seems to have no haste, though, his elbow firmly planted on the table, smoking idly.

"Your name," he says, finally, "is Sam Williams."

Sam frowns, because it most definitely _isn't_.

 

 

Charge to two hundred. Clear.

Sam hears the beep of the machines, he hears the doctors, and suddenly he's gasping for air, re-emerging from the dark silence he's fallen into.

He coughs, his throat raw and dry as if he hasn't been drinking for weeks. He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelashes brush against a rough material, and he can feel something, a light weight, covering him. It's a sheet, he discovers, and when he raises a hand and pulls it down, he's staring at a vaguely grey ceiling.

He knows that ceiling.

He's confused as to why he's looking at it, though.

His back is killing him, and he sits up. Apparently he's been lying on a slab in the morgue, completely naked, his butt freezing where it touches the cold metal. He racks his brain, trying to spark a memory as to why he's here, but nothing comes to mind, he's just cold and nursing a massive headache.

If he's got pissed at the pub and one of the guys has thought this would be a brilliant idea…it's probably been Ray's, anyway. Sam is so going to kick his arse.

He slides off the slab and wraps the sheet more tightly around his shoulders, it's cold and the fact that he's barefoot and wearing nothing but his birthday suit certainly doesn't help any.

First step, find some clothes. Preferably his.

On the coroner's desk he spots a bag that seems to contain a familiar looking shirt, he reaches for it and opens it. There are his trousers as well, and everything is marked as evidence. When Sam takes out the shirt and unfolds it things suddenly go from slightly confusing to very disturbing.

On the front of his favourite pale shirt there's a large, brown stain. He can't tell for sure, but he's got a feeling it might be blood. Okay, the joke's gone too far.

"His heart stopped for a minute and a half, Mrs. Tyler," a voice says. "He's stable for now, but another crisis like that could be fatal if we don't find what caused it."

The sheet slips from his grasp, and he lets the shirt fall as he tries to cover himself again. Thus engaged, he can't do nothing but stand there, frozen, when the voices coming from the corridor get closer, and Gene and the pathologist enter the room.

"I want to-" Gene trails off as he notices the now empty slab, then his eyes travel the room and come to rest right on Sam, who's still clutching the sheet to his chest.

"Uh," he says, attempting a smile, "hey, Guv?"

Gene pales considerably and he looks just a moment away from a heart attack. Sam guesses it has something to do with the fact that maybe he's not really expected to walk around.

His Guv turns his head to Oswald, though his eyes are still on Sam, and he gestures vaguely. "Now, I may've had a tad more single malt than usual, but damn if that's not me DI."

Oswald nods slowly, and his widened eyes are the most expressive emotion – if not the only one – Sam's ever seen on his face.

"Alright," Gene clears his voice. "Last time I saw him, he was dead."

"Apparently," and Sam can't help it, really. "The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

Gene nods curtly, then takes the steps that separate them and punches him in the face.

 

*

*

*

 

Sam adjusts the ice bag against the bruise that's starting to bloom on his left cheek and sighs. Gene could have refrained from resolving issues with violence as usual. Not that he expected a breathtakingly passionate kiss with the sun setting in the background, but he's been dead until five minutes ago, and a warm welcome would have been nice, for God's sake. He could even settle for lukewarm.

On his part, he thinks he might be taking the situation too well. Maybe he's in shock.

They're still in the morgue, the door now locked. He's once again sitting on the slab, Gene pacing back and forth in the middle of the room, stopping from time to time to look at him, as if to check he's not vanished, or died again. Oswald is at his desk, and for the past fifteen minutes he's been going over the autopsy report, muttering different variations of 'he was dead' at irregular intervals.

He shifts, trying to find a better position so that he'll be able to feel his bum again. He hasn't moved in a long time and the fact that he's still bollock naked under the light sheet and sitting on cold metal certainly doesn't help any.

"Okay," he says. "I need clothes."

Gene sweeps his gaze from his head down to his toes, as if he's only now realized that Sam's virtually naked.

"Obviously," Sam continues, when Gene turns to look at his trousers and shirt on the coroner's desk. "I can't wear those, they're evidence." Gene rolls his eyes. "There's a box with my personal effects in my locker, with a change of clothes. I meant to clear it on Monday, but…"

Gene stiffens and nods. "I'll get Cartwright to bring them."

He frowns. "What're you gonna tell her?"

"That you're cold."

"I'm dead, Guv," he says.

"No, you're not."

"Well, not now," he concedes. "But I was until half an hour ago. How are we going to break the news to her? And to the others?"

"We'll figure it out."

"Guv…"

Gene points two fingers at him. "Not now, Tyler," he hisses. "Right now I'm very angry at you."

"As if that's news," he crosses his arms over his chest, or tries to, the sheet keeps slipping down, threatening to expose him. Well, it's not like the present company hasn't seen him naked, already. Oswald's even seen him on the inside.

He shudders.

Gene claps his hands together, apparently having reached a solution. "Alright," he says, drawing the attention of both him and the coroner. "You're still dead, for now."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Brilliant plan, Guv!" he exclaims, then points at the slab he's sitting on. "Where's my body?"

"This conversation is surreal," Oswald says, getting up. "Yesterday I had your heart in my hand!"

He swallows, feeling queasy, and judging by Gene's slightly greenish face he doesn't feel much better. Sam lays a hand on his chest. "Nope. Still beating," he says, and he's got no scars, either from the... murder, or the autopsy. It's as if he's completely regenerated. It's just as well, actually, he really doesn't feel like starring in a Romero film, this has already surpassed the willing suspention of disbelief as far as he's concerned.

Oswald seems about to faint. "I'm going for a kip. Maybe I'll wake up and find this is all a dream."

Gene and Sam watch him as he wobbles to the door, unlocks it and disappears outside.

"Clothes," Sam repeats, snapping his fingers. "My bollocks are about to fall off."

Gene raises an eyebrow at him. "And we don't want that, do we?"

 

*

*

*

 

They are sitting in the interview room. The actual interview room, the one that never gets used as suspects are brought to the Lost and Found for questioning, because of the 'thick walls'. Gene has assured him nobody ever comes down here.

He leans back against the chair, arms crossed over his chest, and looks at Gene expectantly. His Guv seems to have no haste, though, his elbow firmly planted on the table, smoking idly.

"Your name," he says, finally, "is Sam Williams."

Sam frowns, because it most definitely isn't.

"I-" he starts, but Gene cuts him off, slamming a fist on the table and making him jump.

"Shut up!" he exclaims. "You're Sam Williams. Sam Tyler doesn't exist. Now, explain."

Sam shakes his head and sighs. "I can't."

Gene shoots up, grabbing the border of the table and hurling it across the room, and this time Sam gasps aloud, jumping back to avoid being caught in Gene's display of anger.

"Don't give me that bullshit!" Gene shouts, now towering over him, his face set in a furious grimace.

Sam shoots up, as well, "I'm not saying that I won't! I'm saying that I really _can't_!" he yells. "I don't know what the hell is going on, either! Look, I-"

"You don't _exist_, Sam! Tyler is not even your real name!" Gene cuts him off, taking two steps forward, crowding him. "Who the hell are you? No, wait. Considering recent developments, maybe the right question would be, what the hell are you?"

"I exist okay?!" he exclaims, pushing against Gene shoulders furiously, tears stinging in his eyes. "I exist!"

Gene stumbles back, hitting the wall and Sam falls against him. "I _exist_," he whispers again, against his chest, and suddenly they're kissing. And it's desperate and messy, because Sam didn't think he'd see Gene ever again after Sunday, and he supposes that Gene, too, has felt like that, when they found him.

There's a whisper against his forehead when they come apart. "You're _alive_," Gene says, softly, as if still can't believe it. "Sam."

"Yes, I'm here," he says, his arms going around his neck and tugging down, so that now he's breathing against the skin of his throat, so that he can feel Gene breathing under his lips. "And my name _is_ Sam Tyler. Only thing is, right now I'm four, going on five."

The hands roaming up his back still, and Gene tenses against him. "What the-" he says, and pushes him slightly so that he can look into his eyes. "What are you talkin' about?"

Sam shakes his head. "You've seen me, right?" he asks, because he was just a small child at the time, and maybe he's done the timeline maths wrong.

Gene frowns down at him. "I'm seeing you right now."

"No, I mean- Sammy Tyler, have you seen him, _me_? Four year old Sam." He tries to give some sense to the words coming out from his mouth, but it's not that easy, considering that they're confused even as he thinks them. "The medal. You gave me the medal."

Gene takes a sharp breath and looks down at him, his eyes wide in wonder. "How do you know that?" he asks.

"I'm from the future, okay? Your future," he says, and he never thought he'd see the day when that would the most plausible thing happening to him, but the undead factor wins, hands down. "From 2006. I was _four_ in 1973, Gene."

Gene's hands on his arms tighten. "Sam-"

"I got knocked over by a car," he says, nonchalantly, because he can afford it, he died, for God's sake! "I'm in a coma right now. Probably."

"You could as well be for all the sense you're talkin'!" Gene exclaims, pushing him away and rubbing his face.

"Yeah, right," he snorts. "Because coming back from the dead is all rational and reasonable."

"Jesus," Gene curses, softly. "Bloody hell, Tyler."

"You're telling me."

There's a moment of silence, then. "Tony Crane," Gene says.

Sam shakes his head at the non-sequitur and looks up at him. "What?"

"Tony Crane was telling the truth," Gene says, narrowing his eyes at him. "_You_ should be in the funny farm, not _him_!"

"He would have killed Eve, if I didn't do something!" he exclaims. "He would have become one of the worst crime lords in Manchester, if not England!"

"So it's alright when you're the one fitting 'em up, innit?" Gene snorts. "But when it's me…"

"It wasn't like that! I had to act fast or-" he shakes his head. "Look! This isn't the time nor place to talk about this."

"Of course not, because it's _you_," Gene exclaims, getting into his face.

"I know that, okay?" he cuts him off. "But I had no choice! And I was dying, Crane was killing me in the future!"

Gene snorts and barks a laugh. "Of _course_!"

"I wasn't thinking!"

Gene slams his palm down on the table. "That's the most sensible thing you've said, lately!" he exclaims. "You ain't bloody _thinking_!"

"_Gene_!" Sam pleads, because he hasn't got the energy to embark on one of their fights, which will inevitably leave him emotionally and physically drained. It's not like he doesn't know what he's done is _wrong_, but at least Eve is alive. That has to count for something, right?

Gene takes a sharp intake of breath and nods curtly, as if steeling himself for bad news. "What the hell's goin' on?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" he sighs. "Thing is, I don't know. I don't know why I'm here, how I arrived here, how to get out." He shakes his head. "I could be mad for all I know. I could be talking to an hallucination in a white padded room, right now."

Gene snorts. "Please, I wouldn't waste my time as _your_ hallucination."

"Thank you, now I feel relieved," he rolls his eyes.

"Or you could be all three, you know," Gene shrugs. "In a coma, back in time _and_ mad."

"Please, stop trying to comfort me," Sam glares at him.

Gene nods again, then goes to the table and rights it. He draws up his chair and sits down, palms down on the table. "So, first things first," he says. "Who killed you?"

Sam sits down, as well. "Well-" he starts, then frowns "I don't know."

The Guv blinks at him, looks down, then looks up at Sam again. "Excuse me, what?"

"I don't remember much, actually," he sighs, scratching the back of his head. "It's all sketchy, could be post-traumatic amnesia," he shrugs. "Repression, you know."

"Bullshit," Gene says, slowly.

He scowls. "I've died and come back to life, I'd call that traumatic," he says. "Going out on a limb here, Guv, but I'd even define it as _very_ traumatic."

Gene leans back against his seat. "I see your death hasn't cured you of your pathetic attempts at sarcasm."

He glares at him. "I see my death hasn't cured you of being an arsehole."

And that's the wrong thing to say, because Gene gives him a furious glare and stands up, almost knocking back his chair.

"No, Gene, wait!" he calls out, but he's already left, slamming the door on his way out. "Gene-"

And they've made jokes and tried to lighten the situation, but taking a step back and considering the situation from every angle, it doesn't look like there's much to joke about. Actually, ever since last week nothing's been going well. First the transfer, then Chris catching them 'in the act', then him dying, then he's not so dead any more. The only reason he doesn't fear the Apocalypse is coming is that, being from 2006, he would have known if suddenly the Four Horsemen had started walking on the earth in 1973.

Sam rubs his face and thanks God he's not superstitious.

It's not like he can get up and go look for Gene – officially he's dead, after all – so he just sits there, hoping his Guv will return at some point.

As it turns out he doesn't have to wait very long. Ten minutes later Gene comes back, and the sharper smell of smoke and Scotch is very telling. Sam says nothing, and just looks at him, expectantly.

Gene measures the room in long, quick strides, back and forth, back and forth. He stops a few times, but seems undecided and then resumes pacing. Finally he settles. He leans over the table with his hands, his right index finger punctuating every word he says by hitting the desk. "They slit your throat from ear to ear and it was so deep, they-" he stops, and shuts his eyes, as an almost imperceptible shudder runs through his body. He swallows. "Your head had almost been cut off of your neck. And they left you in a bloody boot for _two_ days."

Sam wants so desperately to look away, to close his eyes, because there's something raw in Gene's eyes, and they're bright with unshed tears. This is _unnatural_, his Guv shouldn't be crying; Sam chokes, he doesn't want to witness this, but he owes Gene, he owes him after everything he's been put through.

"Do you have the faintest-" his voice breaks and he takes a deep breath. "Can you imagine what it felt like when we found you- when we _saw_ you?"

He tries to picture what he'd do – _feel_ – in their place, if he'd find Gene like that, or Annie, or anybody else of them. He can't imagine, he just _can't_. He finally lowers his eyes, sniffing to keep the tears from falling.

"No, you _don't_." Gene continues, lowly. "I swore I'd get the bastard who did that to you, because no one, nobody touches one of mine. And I swore that he'd regret it for the rest of his very, very short life."

He clears his throat and looks up at him. "I'm sorry, Guv, I didn't mean that, I-" he whispers, but Gene cuts him off.

"Except, now you're alive," he says. "What should I do? Is that even murder any more? I don't think we'll find any precedents for a thing like this, will we?"

He shakes his head. "No."

Gene slams a hand down on the table, making him jump. "Then who the hell I'm going to kick to a bleedin' pulp over this? Who's gonna pay for all the shit we went through, eh?" he yells, then. "You tell me Sam, because I'm just about to go completely crazy 'ere."

Sam nods slowly, his head down in his hands. Then he raises his eyes, rubs his face, sighs, trying to think. "Okay, uh…" he clears his throat. "This is gonna sound strange, but…"

"Oh, _please_!" Gene snorts. "You couldn't possibly top today, not even if you told me you're from _Mars_."

He considers that, then nods. "Fair enough," he concedes. "I need to see my autopsy report," he says, taking a deep breath. "And the evidence found at the- at the crime scene."

Gene rolls his eyes. "_Great_," he snorts. "Now DI Lazarus wants to investigate his own murder."

Sam shrugs. "Just another day in the Twilight Zone."

The Guv nods thoughtfully, his lips pursed. "Maybe I'm the one in the funny farm," he says, seriously.

"Nah, you probably wouldn't waste an hallucination on _me_," Sam says, making a vague hand gesture. "Brazilian cubists with legs up here is more likely."

Gene gives him a long look, then slaps his hand on the table and stands up. "I'm talking to me dead DI. I need a drink."

*

*

*

*

Sam's been staring at the folder for quite some time now. Gene's sitting in front of him, smoking away the wait, and Sam doesn't know for sure, but supposes he's giving him some space. It's not everyday you're face to face with _your own_ autopsy, after all.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and opens the folder. The file is very detailed, and Sam tries to keep his mind blank, tries to think of this as some complete stranger's post-mortem. He turns the page and there are photos, black and white photos of his slit throat. A small sound escapes from his lips and he can taste the bile in his mouth. He decides to skip all the pictures, and turns them all face down, until he comes to one of his face. Or rather, _somebody else_'s face.

"Uh…" he says, confused. "This is not my autopsy report."

Gene frowns and leans forward. "I fetched it meself. I can read, you know?" he barks, but takes the folder from him to check. "Nope," he says. "This is yours."

Sam shakes his head and shows him the photo. "This isn't me."

"Right," Gene gives him a long look. "What're you on about?" he asks, very slowly, as if Sam were stupid. "_Of course_ that's you!"

Sam thinks it's Gene who might be stupid. Or blind, possibly, it could explain his driving. "What are you on about?" he exclaims. "I'm definitely not blond!"

Gene blinks at him. "I think being dead has made you more bonkers, it that's even possible."

Sam takes a lock of hair between his fingers. "Look!" he says, pointing at it. "It's _brown_!"

"You're blond and you've got freckles, Tyler," Gene says. "Put pink bows in your hair and you'll be the prettiest girl around."

This is getting decidedly annoying. "This is not me!" he exclaims, when it suddenly hits him. He takes the picture and looks at it in wonder. "This isn't me," he breathes.

"Yeah, you already said that," Gene snorts. "But it still doesn't make sense."

"This is-"

"Not you," Gene snorts and rolls his eyes.

"_Sam Williams_," he says, blinking down at the photo. "I'm not really here."

Gene frowns. "I thought we've established that you are, in fact, here. Real."

"No, I mean-" he shakes his head and tries to find the right words. "I'm not _physically_ here. My body is in a hospital in 2006. I'm just-"

"You mean to tell me," Gene cuts him off, "that all this time I've been shagging a stranger? A bloody pillock from _Hyde_?!"

Sam glares at him. "I see you've grasped the pivotal point of this revelation, Guv," he snorts. "As always."

"No, I don't think _you_ have grasped that, Tyler!" he exclaims, then frowns. "Williams?" he asks tentatively.

"No, it's still Tyler, Gene," he says, rolling his eyes. "I'm the same as I was last week. Considerably more confused, but the same, nonetheless. I'll just have to come to terms with the fact that I'm in- somebody else's body…" he trails off and thumps his forehead down on the table.

"You're doin' a very good job, then," Gene snorts.

He groans. "_Great_, I'm in bloody Quantum Leap, now," he thumps his head again. "Just call me Sam Beckett."

"I thought it was still Tyler."

He takes a deep breath and leans back, blinking up at the ceiling. "Please, wake up," he whispers. "_Please_!"

"Who're you talkin' to, you nutty bastard?"

"Myself, in the future," he replies. "I want to wake up. There is no way this is real! This is just a stupid sci-fi film gone bad!"

"Well, then. Wake up, Sam," Gene says, and when he looks at him, he's serious.

"Oh, I would if I could," he tells him and sighs. "Leave this bloody insane place and go back to reality." The crazy predicament he's in right now shows so many things about his subconscious that he's sure he was better off not knowing. "I miss my mum, I miss Maya," he whispers, more to himself than Gene. "I miss sensibleness. I miss order."

Gene's snort draws him back to reality- well, what passes for reality around here.

"What?" he frowns.

"I knew it," Gene says, shaking his head. "You whined so much about your transfer…" he snorts again. "You know, there was a moment when I really thought you'd rather stay here."

"But this isn't real!" Sam exclaims, hitting the tabletop with his palm. "How can this be real? I've gone back in time, Gene! I've died and I've come back. I'm some other bloke's body! This can't be real!"

"If it's all in your head…" Gene starts. "Well, then you're kinky, crazy bastard, Tyler!"

"What? Because I like to shag my superior officer in my seventies, ugly flat?"

"No. Well, yes, that too." Gene replies. "But also because if all of this comes from your imagination, all those murders, rapes, nasty bastards we've been investigating come straight out of yer mind!" Gene exclaims. "And what does that tell about you?"

Sam takes a deep breath and thinks about Kramer – but that could've come from the case he was investigating before the accident, couldn't it? – he thinks of Warren, of _his father_. He thinks of the Test Card Girl with her bloody clown, and what is she supposed to be? Death? His subconscious? Just the hallucination of a girl with a bloody clown? He lets his head fall into his hands.

"And what about _Harry_, Sam?" Gene goes on, his voice lower. "I had to lose him just because you wanted to teach me a lesson?"

Sam's head shoots up at that. "No, Guv! I…" he trails off. "I don't know what to do. I don't know who- _what_ to trust, anymore. I just don't-"

"I trust you, Tyler," Gene abruptly says, and Sam's speechless, because despite the fact that Gene's had access to and has touched, and licked and kissed every part of his body, he's never said anything so intimate before. "Close yer daft mouth, Gladys," he grunts.

He smiles a little. "The Sheriff and his Deputy together against the world, eh Guv?"

"I've seen a lot of westerns, Tyler, and I don't seem to remember any shaggin' between the two of them."

"Oh, you'd be surprised at the kind of cowboys that's turned up lately."

"What?"

"I…trust you, Gene," he says, looking straight at him. "I just don't know if I can trust myself."

"Well, put it this way," Gene says, crossing his arms over his chest. "If I'm a figment of your imagination, then you can trust yourself."

"And if you're real?"

"Then you can still trust me."

Sam nods, thoughtfully. "I see."

"Good," Gene says, with a sharp nod. "Now, can we drop all this poncey crap and start with the important bits?"

"What?" Sam snorts, rolling his eyes. "Shagging?"

Gene frowns, "I wasn't thinking about that," he says. "But yeah, that too."

"What were you thinking about, then?"

"Who the hell is Sam Williams and what's he doin' here?"

*

*

*

*

Relegated to the interview room, Sam has nothing to do but go over the crime scene reports and the witness statements to occupy his time until the end of the shift, when Gene's promised to smuggle him out of the CID and take him somewhere safe, where nobody will find him. Knowing Gene it's probably a pub.

He sighs, all the queasiness at thinking of himself as _the victim_ replaced by boredom, now. He's hungry, as well, but not so much as to seriously consider the bacon butty Gene has so graciously brought him from the canteen. He's been eyeing it for the past half and hour, though, and he's worried sooner or later he'll end up eating it, despite himself. If this isn't real he doesn't have to worry about cholesterol, does he?

He leafs through the notes Chris had transcribed about his flat and frowns when he comes to the bottle of wine on the table and the cups in the sink. Apparently he had somebody over. Somebody who was not Gene, or he would have said. But why the cups set to dry and the bottle left on the table, instead? Gene said that he left the Railway Arms with Malcolm on Sunday and, judging by the statement Jack Travis, his neighbour, gave, they arrived at his flat around midnight.

He doesn't remember that, as he doesn't have any recollection of the phone calls he made later, or of the stuff he needed to talk to Gene about. For him, last Sunday is mostly a blur of vague images and impressions.

Partial amnesia can be traced back to a blow to the head, or a trauma and, by the looks of the autopsy report, Sam's got a bit of both. And it's frustrating, because they're just one step away from getting their killer – _his_ killer – and maybe it's not their only problem at the moment, but at least they could check one item off of their very long 'What The Hell Is Going On?' list.

Of course, everything would be much easier if he could question the witnesses himself, or have a talk with Malcolm, who apparently is the last person to have seen him alive. Apart from the murderer, of course.

His stomach rumbles and he stretches a hand towards the greasy monstrosity, when suddenly the door inches open.

"The light's on," comes Annie's whispering voice. "Nobody ever uses this, but I've seen the Guv come in here a couple of times."

"You don't reckon he's blown his top after the Boss…" and that's Chris.

Fuck. Oh, _fuck_.

And now the door's completely open, Annie and Chris standing on threshold, gaping at him, and Sam frozen, with his bacon butty suspended on the way to his mouth, gooey grease dripping down his wrist.

"Hey," he says, feebly.

Chris faints.

*

*

*

*

"I knew your daft plan wasn't going work," Sam hisses, as he sneaks a peek through the blinds of Gene's office.

Everybody is in the squad room, a captive audience to Chris and Annie's animated account of the facts.

"It's not like you had a better plan yourself, wonder clogs," Gene replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes a folder from his desk and passes it to Sam. "This is what Oswald came up with."

Sam gives a quick read, then snorts and shakes his head.

"What?" Gene barks, stopping in the process of pouring himself a Scotch.

He gives him an incredulous look. "This says I was drugged and only presumed dead!" he exclaims, tossing the folder onto the desk. "According to this," he continues, "the wound was in no way fatal!"

Gene shrugs and tosses back the Scotch.

"I seriously doubt anybody will believe that, Guv!"

"Well, you certainly don't look dead to me," Gene replies, giving him a cursory glance.

He sighs and sits down. "I don't even have a scratch on me!" Except for the imprint of Gene's knuckles on his cheekbone, of course.

Gene rolls his eyes and rummages in his drawers for a while, until he comes up with a first aid kit, and frankly Sam doesn't want to think about how long it's been there. Probably before this became Gene's office.

Sam looks down at the kit in his hands, then frowns at Gene. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Make yourself a bandage," he replies, downing the last of his drink.

Sam sighs, but opens the kit and takes out some gauze. "I still think nobody will believe this farce."

Gene looks at him. "They will," he says. "Because everybody knows the alternative is impossible."

Sam glances up at him, frowning. "How come you believe me, then?"

"I already knew you were an impossible bloke, Tyler," Gene replies. "Ever before this whole zombie stunt."

Sam laughs out loud at that. "Yeah, look at me. I'm zombie Sam," he finally manages to stick the gauze into place and turns to Gene. "Well?"

Gene shrugs. "All right."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm not supposed to look _all right_."

"You look all right for a supposedly dead bloke," Gene replies.

Sam glares at him. "Guv."

"Like death warmed over."

"_Gene_."

"Give over, Gladys," Gene exclaims, smacking him on the shoulder. "It's not like that lot out there will question the fact that you're alive. If you're lucky, you'll even get a kiss from the plonk."

Sam smirks sideways at him. "You're jealous," he tells him.

"Why would I be?" Gene shrugs. "It's not like she's the one shaggin' you into every surface available," he says, matter-of-factly.

Sam chokes and he can feel himself blushing. He doesn't remember Gene ever being this forward about their 'little agreement' as he's called it, once or twice.

"Here," Gene says, tossing him his jacket.

He blinks at him, his hands gripping the familiar leather. "Where was this?"

Gene nods to the coat rack behind the door. "Cartwright said you left it at The Railway Arms."

"You kept it," he says, sliding his arms in the sleeves and buttoning down the front.

Gene rolls his eyes and lights a cigarette. He mutters something like 'bloody girly poof' under his breath, but then he raises his head and looks straight at Sam. "You'd've given me hell if we lost it, wouldn't you?"

Sam bats his eyelashes at him. "Can I get a kiss from you instead?"

Gene gives him a long look, then thumps him on the back of the head.

Sam is still grinning when Gene opens the door and all the eyes of the people in the room turn on him. For a moment the silence is absolute and everything seems suspended, but then Annie comes forward and hugs him tightly. "You're alive," she whispers against his ear, and when she comes away her eyes are bright with unshed tears.

"Yep," Gene says. "Our boy wonder here's had a bad case of 'somebody slipped me a mickey'."

"_Again_?" somebody mutters.

"What do you mean?" Malcolm exclaims, gaping at Sam. "I saw him, he was _dead_!"

"Nah," Gene shrugs. "Just a very nasty drug, he only looked dead." At that Sam really has to force himself not to roll his eyes or snort, and the quelling glare Gene's sending his way certainly helps. "So, who's up for the pub?" he asks the room at large, raising his hand, but everybody's still looking at Sam with widened eyes. "Tyler's buying," Gene says the magic words, and all the hands in the room raise. Sam glares at him, Gene smirks. "Good then!" he exclaims, turning towards the exit, but he stops short when the doors open and a tall man Sam's never seen before enters.

"Ah, Sam," the stranger says, looking straight at him, then he frowns confused. "I thought you were dead."

"And who you might be?" Gene asks, hands on his hips.

The man turns to him, extending his hand. "DCI Frank Morgan," he says. "From Hyde."

Gene takes a step forward, coming to stand right between him and Morgan, he ignores the outstretched hand. "He's not dead, as you can see," he says.

"Well, that's most-"

"_Fortunate_?" Gene cuts him off, and for a moment it feels like they're engaged in some sort of silent communication, mostly consisting of angry glares from Gene and bemused looks from Morgan.

But then Morgan inclines his head in a concillatory gesture and smiles warmly. "Indeed," he says, then he looks in his direction. "Sam, how do you feel?"

He frowns, because apparently he's _supposed_ to know this man, and his voice is indeed familiar, but he can't quite place it, and the sight of him doesn't spark any particular memory in his mind. He just nods.

"Good, good," Morgan says, almost to himself, then smiles again.

"And you came all this way from Hyde just to ask how was he feeling?" Gene asks. "You could have picked up the phone."

"Of course not, Mr. Hunt," he replies. "I came here to take part in the investigation of my DI's murder," he glances at Sam. "Well, of course, it's only assault now, but the case still stands."

Gene snorts. "You came this far for nowt, then. We're already investigating."

"As of last Monday, DI Tyler is officially under my command," Morgan says, shaking his head. "And because of that I'm directly involved in the investigation. I never leave a man behind."

Gene scowls at him. "Neither do we."

Sam clears his voice, diverting the attention on himself. "I'm still in the room, you know," he says. "DCI Morgan, Sir, I'm sure the Guv would gladly accept the help," he pleasantly tells him, ignoring the glares Gene's sending his way. "But as he said, we're investigating, and despite my temporary loss of short term memory, catching the culprit is just a matter of time. Our success rate is impressively high."

Morgan narrows his eyes at him. "I… see," he nods.

"Good!" Gene claps his hands together. "Pub?"

*

*

*

*

Sam observes intently the beer in his glass as it slowly whirls around, following the circular motions of his hand. He's sat at the bar, as always, but there's Morgan on the stool next to him, and Gene's nowhere to be seen, the last he's heard of him he was loudly proclaiming his need of the loo. It's strange, because you'd think the Guv would stick around him like a dog with his bone, after all that territorial pissing in the office. Of course, back then there was no pissed pissing involved. He snorts at his terrible pun and almost knocks his forehead into his glass.

He frowns down at his glass, then up at Nelson. "How many did I have?"

"Even I can't count that high," Nelson says, with a smirk.

Sam doubts that, otherwise he would close shop within a week. "I might be slightly pissed, then," he says, frowning.

"I don't think you should drink anything more, Sam." Morgan tells him, nodding to Nelson.

"I think I shall," Sam declares, though. He's back from the dead, that's cause for celebration, right? Just like- like- "Isn't there a film where the bloke's dead but he isn't really?" he asks, to nobody in particular. And maybe he shouldn't have said that out loud, because now Morgan is giving him weird glances.

Nelson smiles and puts a chaser in front of him. "There you go, Sam," he says. "Felicitations on your resurrection."

He frowns. "Who told you that?" he asks, but Nelson just smirks

"Nelson!" he calls, grabbing his sleeve, as the barman makes to go. "Nelson."

"Yes, _mon brav_?"

"Sunday," he starts. "I was here."

Nelson nods. "Yes."

"What happened?" he asks. "I don't remember."

"You were drinking at the bar with him," he replies, nodding in the direction of Malcolm, who's now sitting with the others, sending glances in his direction every once in a while.

"And?"

"You talked about a lot of things," Nelson says. "Strange things."

"What strange things?"

"Drunk man words, Sam," he replies, winking at him. "Nothing to worry about."

Sam frowns and shakes his head. He remembers talking with Malcolm in the CID canteen, before Gene came to interrupt them. They talked about 2006, mobile phones, DNA analysis, and Doctor Who. And he remembers telling him that he's got to keep fighting, and that he shouldn't talk to radios and TVs, no matter if they seem to address you directly, it just doesn't work. He figured all he has is experience, and he could spare Malcolm the pain of being seen as another 'nutter from Hyde'.

"When I heard Hunt had requested for you to transfer back," Morgan starts, looking straight at him. "I thought he'd started to suspect something."

He frowns, that doesn't make much sense, but maybe it's Sam that's too bladdered. He squints at him, trying to keep his face into focus. "What?"

Morgan goes on as if he hasn't heard him. "You were doing a very good job," he says, and still Sam doesn't know what the hell is going on. "And when I received the news of your…_death_, I thought you'd been found out."

He blinks up at him. "What are you talking about?" he asks, very slowly.

"Sam?" Morgan frowns. "Are you all right?"

He sniffs. "More or less, yeah."

"I thought-" he starts, then stops. "You don't remember?"

This is getting seriously annoying, not to mention disturbing. Sam feels like everybody around him is always a few steps ahead of him and he's left to struggle on trying to keep up. "Remember what?"

"Your job here."

Sam frowns. "I'm a copper, a DI," he says. "That's it."

Morgan looks at him, as if stricken, then he shakes his head, desolate. "I knew I shouldn't have let you do this, after that accident."

And suddenly Sam is not so drunk any more, he sits up in his stool. "_What_ accident?" he hisses, darting glances around them to see if anybody is within earshot.

Morgan looks at him and he's about to answer, when his gaze shifts to something behind Sam and he stops. A hand lands heavily on Sam's shoulder, followed by an unsteady Gene crashing against him, almost toppling both of them to the ground.

"Sammy-boy!" Gene exclaims, patting him on the head, then he turns to Morgan. "DCI Frank Morgan from Hyde. How are you this fine evening?"

"You saw us just ten minutes ago, before you went to the loo, Guv." Sam says, trying to disentangle himself from his grip. It's useless, of course. "You're pissed."

"Am not."

"Yes, you are," Sam replies tiredly, feeling as if they've done this countless times before. They have, in fact.

"Fiver says I'm not."

"I say you are," he replies, standing up. When the pub stops swirling around, he tugs on Gene's sleeve. "Come on Guv, let's get you home."

A hand on his arm stops him in his tracks, and Sam turns to look at Morgan. "We'll continue this conversation later, Sam."

He frowns at him, but Gene is pressing into his side, breathing against his face, and it's starting to have an effect on Sam, a quite obvious effect that everyone's going to notice if they don't leave at once.

"Sure," he nods at him, then turns and half drags, half pushes Gene out of the pub.

As soon as they're outside, Gene straightens up, letting his arms fall from Sam's shoulders and middle, and calmly lights himself a smoke.

Sam frowns at him. "You're not drunk."

Gene shoots him a glance. "Told you," he replies with a shrug.

He shakes his head with a snort. "Why all the act, then?"

"Wouldn't want him to suspect something, would we?" his Guv replies.

He gapes at him. "What the hell are you talking about?" he bursts out, abruptly. "Are we in some sort of spy story or conspiracy film and nobody's told me?"

Gene arches an eyebrow at him. "What're you on about?"

He throws his arms open with a incredulous shout. "What! Everybody is taking me to one side, and talking to me about facts, people as if I should know them, when in fact I _don't_!" he exclaims. "Did I miss the memo? Am I in the middle of one, big cosmic joke?"

Gene gives him a look, then snorts. "Typical," he says. "Sam Tyler at the centre of the universe."

"_What the hell is going on_?!" he practically screams.

Gene grabs his arm and manhandles him to his car. He opens the passenger door and all but throws him inside, then he makes his way around and gets in the driver seat, and Sam's already seen this somewhere. Oh _right_, it happens every other Friday.

"You're just lucky I'm not that picky right now, in regards of partners," he tells him, once he's sat down.

"Please, Tyler. You're a kinky little bastard," Gene says, sneering at him. "Nothing like a good slappin' to get you goin'."

Sam rolls his eyes and sighs. "All romance, you are."

"Why would you need romance, when you've got me?"

"I wonder that myself," he snorts.

"Right," Gene sniffs, looking out the side window at the door of The Railway Arms. "Ray found something out about Williams," he says, turning back to him.

Sam frowns. "What exactly?"

"Apparently Williams– _you_ used to work under Morgan, in Hyde," he says, and his face is so serious that Sam doesn't bother correcting his slip. "Rumour has it, you're here undercover."

"Undercover?"

Gene nods. "To bring me and the team down."

"_What_?"

Gene is frowning at him. "Tell me it's not true, Sam."

He snorts. "Of course it's not-" he starts, but stops. Because what does he know? Maybe it is. That could explain the weird stuff Morgan was telling him earlier, 'You were doing a very good job' and 'I thought he suspected something.'

"Sam?" Gene says, lowly, warningly.

He slams a palm against the dashboard. "Fucking bastard!" he exclaims, taking Gene by surprise.

"Sam, will you-" the Guv starts, but Sam turns to him, grabbing him by the lapels of his coat, their positions for once reversed.

"It was Sam Williams!" he hisses. "It was him undercover! I'm Sam _Tyler_, how many fucking times do I have to tell you?!" he screams into his face. His breathing is ragged and Gene is blinking at him with something akin to fear in his eyes, and he really can't blame him, he's acting like a bloody schizophrenic. As if burned, he abruptly lets go and folds onto himself, his head down into his hands, forehead touching the dashboard, as he takes deep, shuddering breaths. "I'm going crazy. I'm fucking _insane_," he sobs.

A hand awkwardly pats his back, then starts actually stroking him, small circles around his shoulders. "Let's get you to bed, eh?" Gene says softly. "A good night of sleep will do you wonders."

He clears his throat and nods, running a hand across his face and leaning back against the seat.

"Thanks," he says, after a moment. Because he still hasn't called the men in white coats. Because Sam is insane and Gene certainly doesn't need this.

Gene grunts in acknowledgement and revs the engine. "You owe me a fiver."

 

*

*

*

*

 

Sam comes awake with a gasp and almost falls off the bed in a tangle of sheets and limbs.

He blinks up, but it's only his ceiling, familiarly ugly, above him. He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and takes deep breath trying to calm down, to slow his racing heart. The vest he's wearing is sticking to his skin, and the pillow and the mattress are soaked with cold sweat.

Nightmares.

Jesus, as if sleeping weren't already an issue.

And he's pretty sure that one had something to do with his- the murder. And as much as he wants- needs to remember, he's not really that eager, maybe sleeping in his flat hasn't been the brightest idea. Not that he's got any choice in the matter.

He stands up and goes to the sink to drink some water, his throat is parched. He closes his eyes and tries to remember anything at all from his nightmare, but nothing comes and he only ends up by worsening his headache. He fills a cup from the tap, and leans back against the sink, drinking the lukewarm water.

The TV is turned on.

He shuts his eyes, swallowing, and when he reopens them, the Test Card is empty.

"Poor Sam, there's blood in your dreams," the well-known voice taunts him.

He doesn't turn, and just looks ahead.

"Round and round, history repeats," she says.

"Shut up," he hisses, his lips pressed tightly in a thin, long line.

"But poor Sam doesn't know," she says. "He doesn't remember."

"Shut up!" he cries out, hurling the glass across the room.

It shatters against the wall and she goes away for the rest of the night.

 

*

*

*

*

 

When they arrive to the crime scene, Malcolm reaches them, ducking under the rope. "Sir," he says, to Gene, then frowns at Sam. "Sam, what are you doing here?"

He's taken aback by the surprise in his voice and he blinks. "I work here."

"I thought you asked for a transfer?" he says. "That's why I'm here, to take your place."

A heavy hand lands on Sam's shoulder, pushing him forward, "Sammy 'ere isn't leaving," Gene says. "Not until we solve that little nasty business about who shut him in that boot." The hand on his shoulder tightens, and Sam shoots a look his way, but Gene is smirking at Parkman.

"Of course, Sir," Malcolm nods. "I was just surprised." He turns around and gestures for them to follow him.

"Cheeky bastard," Gene hisses through his teeth.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Now you're just being hard on him, Guv," he tells him.

"He thinks he can come here and act as if he's-"

"What? The king of the jungle?" Sam cuts him off. "I seem to recall somebody telling me the same thing once."

Gene looks down at him, he sniffs. "That was different."

"How?" Sam sneaks a glance at him, grinning.

"Okay, not so different," Gene grunts, as they make their way down the slope. "But I've already broken you in, it would be a waste."

Sam snorts, but smiles despite himself.

Malcolm looks up at them, from the bottom of the slope. "Careful on the way down, it's slippery."

But before he finishes his warning, there's a curse from behind them and Ray, the clumsy one for once, comes tumbling down and sweeps them away, in a blur of legs and arms.

When they finally come to a stop, Sam is being squashed down under the combined weight of Gene and Ray, somebody's elbow painfully thrust into his back. Gene is hurling insults left and right, and Ray must be very flustered and embarrassed because he offers a hand to Sam without batting an eye, nor sneering down at him. He just keeps blinking at Gene as if he can't believe he's just mowed down his Guv. Gene is still spitting curses as he tries to scrub all the mud off him, and Sam has to look away before he bursts out laughing.

"You all right Guv?" Chris asks from the top of the slope, Annie beside him, looking down.

Gene starts insulting them as well, and Sam walks away sniggering before he becomes the target of his wrath as well. He wipes the mud off his face, but probably only manages to spread it more, and reaches Malcolm's side next to the victim, schooling his features into seriousness.

"What do we have?"

Malcolm nods in the direction of the body covered with a white sheet, two PCs hovering around it. "A woman," he says. "Doesn't look like she's been raped."

Sam kneels by the body and lifts the sheet, peering under it. The young woman is lying face down on the ground, her blonde hair covering her features.

"Could be an attempted rape gone wrong," Malcolm says and shrugs.

"Is there a rape gone right?" Gene snorts, materializing at his side, his hair in disarray and a long brown stripe of mud going from his left cheek to his ear.

"No, I meant-"

"You science poofs found anything yet?" the Guv asks, looking down at covered victim.

"No, Guv," Sam says, rolling his eyes. "We've just arrived."

"So get down to work, then, eh?" Gene says, giving both of them a pat on the back, then he leaves.

Malcolm looks down. "Where are those guys from CSI when you need them?"

"Thirty years away, I'm afraid."

They both snort, and for a moment Sam thinks this might just work.

*

*

*

*

Or not.

"Amnesia?" Sam repeats blinking.

Morgan nods. "You had an accident just before you started working here," he says. "I should have stopped you, but you seemed to be all right."

Sam raises a hand. "Wait," he says. "I want to check if I've got this right."

Morgan nods, letting his hands fall from the wheel. They're in his car, and right now Sam curses himself for having been so stupid as to agree to meet him, 'away from the eyes and ears of the CID', as he said.

"My name is Sam Williams, and I'm undercover as Sam Tyler to bring down Gene Hunt and his team," he says, but he already knew that. "But coming over here I had an accident, bumped my head, forgot all about this."

"Yes," Morgan replies, nodding.

"And to overcome the amnesia I made a life for myself, as Sam Tyler."

Morgan's nodding becomes more sure, a small, satisfied smile widening on his lips. "Exactly," he says.

"And you're actually my father and I should come over and join you on the Dark Side," he dead-pans. At that Morgan frowns, uncomprehendingly. He sighs and shakes his head.

"I see you're not taking this seriously," Morgan says, with a disapproving tone, and that might be the understatement of the century. "I was really worried when I saw you were transferring back, Sam."

He nods, looking out the passenger window. It's raining. "Yeah, yeah, and when you heard I was dead you thought-" he sits up sharply and turns around to look at him. "Wait, when you said you were afraid I'd been found out, you didn't mean…" he trails off, but the expression on Morgan's face tells him all he needs to know. "You thought Gene _had killed me_!" he almost shouts, leaping forward to grab the lapels of Morgan's suit jacket. "He'd never do something like that!"

Morgan is staring at him, disbelief all over his features, and maybe Sam's slightly over-the-top, because he's never engaged violent behaviour towards a superior officer, before. Except Gene. And Litton of course, but like his Guv, he sees him more as a despicable individual than a proper DCI.

He lowers his eyes, and slowly lets go of him, sitting back in his seat. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Sir."

"This isn't you, Sam," Morgan says, and Sam almost snorts, because what does he know? He manages to keep himself under check, though. "Being near him has changed you. Maybe the transfer isn't such a bad thing."

He raises his head at that. "I thought-" he frowns. "Gene's requested my staying here, Malcolm's coming back."

Morgan smiles and shakes his head. "Malcolm is staying here, Sam," he says. "He was our contingency plan."

"Our…contingency plan?" he repeats, blinking.

And is Hyde a codeword for people who fall into comas and are employed in undercover operations in a different timeline? Is this some sort of recycling? Because frankly, right now he's got no expectations regarding his current situation. Best case scenario, he's in a coma and back in time. Worst case scenario, he's mad. Although the spectrum is kind of blurry, and the best and the worst are often interchangeable.

"You mean, Malcolm works with you?" he exclaims. "Assuming Malcolm Parkman is his real name, and not his undercover one."

Morgan frowns at him. "Of course he works with us, don't you remember?" and this time Sam rolls his eyes, because really, his hallucinations or whatever they are could do with a bit of continuity. "Metropolitan Accountability and Reconciliation Strategy," Morgan tells him, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "M.A.R.S."

"Of course, another man from '_Hyde_', from _your_ team," he wiggles his fingers. "_Really_ clever. Gene won't suspect a thing!"

"Can't you see, Sam?" Morgan says, gently. "You've got too close, you've lost sight of the goal."

"What are you-" he starts, his eyes narrowing, a terrible suspicion growing, and clawing his way out.

Morgan shakes his head. "This isn't healthy for you, Sam," he says, and Sam knows that he _knows_.

"Who told you?" he asks, his voice almost inaudible, but he already knows the answer. Words spoken in his flat, clear in his mind, despite the vague recollecting he has of That Evening.

_"After all, I'm not sleeping with the boss."_

"What?"

"You know, I didn't remember the '70s as being this gay, then I watched closer."

Malcolm.

"Although it could play to our advantage," Morgan continues, "it would certainly ruin his reputation."

Sam blinks at him, slack-jawed, and for a moment he thinks he's misheard him, because there's no way he'd suggest something like _that_. But Morgan still has that calculating glint in his eyes, and while he doesn't look particularly pleased, he's not that opposed to the idea.

"And _mine_!" he exclaims. "Why would I willingly give you material that would make me the laughing stock of the whole division?"

"You'd ruin only Sam Tyler's reputation," Morgan says, sensibly. "You're DI Sam Williams, soon to be DCI."

"What do you-" he sputters. "_Jesus_! You want me to play the whore?!" he exclaims. "And for what? Because you have something against Hunt?!"

"I don't 'have something against Hunt'," Morgan frowns. "I thought we agreed this assignment was a necessary step down the road to a new way of policing."

"That's not what this is," he snorts. "This is a fucking crusade against one man!"

Morgan's features become as if set in stone. "Officers," he says, "and men, like Gene Hunt, take one down and the whole castle of cards tumbles down."

"Officers like Gene Hunt?" Sam hisses. "You have no idea what kind of officer Gene Hunt is, much less what kind of man!" he yells at him, then he throws open the car door and gets out, slamming it shut behind him.

He leaves, seething, his boots hitting the wet asphalt at a fast pace.

*

*

*

*

The morning after finds Sam sitting on the couch in Gene's office, with his head in his hands, nursing a hell of a hangover and with barely four hours of sleep in two days on his shoulders. Waiting for his Guv, his face is slipping down, leaving a wet trail down his wrist, and he tilts and almost falls down three times before he actually starts to consider stretching down on the lumpy sofa for a kip.

He's just lain down when the door opens and Gene storms in. There's a long pause, presumably due the fact that Gene's noticed his presence in his office, then the door slams shut, the blinds clattering against the glass.

"Tyler!" he exclaims. "You look like something the cat brought in."

He sits up, scratching the back of his head, blinking. "Uh," he says, confused. "I slept in the car."

Gene stops on his way to the desk and turns to look at him, frowning. "And why on earth did you? Lost the keys?" he asks. "You could've kicked in the door."

Sam rolls his eyes, because that's the kind of advice Gene would give. He doesn't answer the question, though, it doesn't matter if Gene's sort of believed him until now, he certainly doesn't want to test his patience with tales of Test Card Girls coming out of TVs and nightmares and voices from the future.

"I spoke with Morgan yesterday," he sighs, sinking against the back of the couch. Gene freezes for a moment, but then he gives a curt nod, and Sam takes it as a permission to go on. "It's what you- what we feared," he says. "I was supposed to work undercover and provide enough evidence to build a case against you."

Gene sits down at his desk, levelling a long look at him. "You're not gonna do that now, are you?"

"Of course not."

"No problems, then," he says. "Enough with your bloody broodin'."

Sam shakes his head. "It's not that simple."

Gene frowns at him. "What do you mean?"

"Malcolm works for him, as well," he says.

"Parkman is goin' back to Hyde next week."

"I wouldn't be too sure." At Gene's confusion, he elaborates. "Morgan is pressing for me to go back to Hyde and Malcolm to stay here."

"No bloody way!" Gene bursts out. "I'm not letting you go, now that-" he stops, his eyes widening and his jaw tightening as if he's let out more than he's meant to. Sam ducks his head, but he can feel the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile. "Anyway," Gene clears his voice. "I'll go to the Super and sort this out."

"No, Guv," he says, rubbing his face. "I haven't told you everything, yet."

Gene leans forward and latches his fingers over his desk, he hangs his head, sighing. "Why do I have the feeling that I'm not gonna like it?"

"Because you won't," Sam replies. "Morgan knows."

Gene frowns. "Morgan knows what?"

"Morgan _knows_," he repeats, and he can see in Gene's eyes the exact moment he gets it. "Guv…"

Gene shoots up, slamming his hands down on the desk. "Who told him?!" he yells.

"Malcolm did," he replies, and even though he's braced himself for the outburst, he still cringes when Gene slams down his hands again, and again, and again.

"Parkman did?! And who told him?"

"He guessed."

"He- _guessed_?!" Gene shouts. And now it's the turn of the filing cabinet.

Sam turns and peers outside, through the blinds, the few people in the squad room are looking in the direction of the office with ill-concealed alarm, and talking among themselves in hushed tones.

"Uh, you might want to keep it down, Guv," he says. "You don't want to advertise it."

Gene's panting now and he drops in his chair behind the desk. He rubs his face and gets a hold of his Scotch, considers it for a moment, then decides to drink straight from the bottle, bypassing the glass altogether.

Sam looks at him for a moment, then lowers his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's why I've decided to resign."

Gene coughs and sputters, as the Scotch goes down the wrong way, and maybe he should have waited until he had finished. The Guv slams the bottle down, stands up and comes to the sofa. Sam is grabbed by the collar and literally heaved up to his feet.

"_What_?!" Gene barks into his face.

"Guv…"

"What the hell is goin' on in that bloody noggin of yours?"

Sam shakes his head, because it's not easy, really. And maybe going back to Hyde means dying, giving up, or maybe he'll wake up and forget all about this absurd fantasy his comatose brain has fabricated. And if he's really back in time...Well, then he can't risk the lives of his- _friends_. "I can't stay here any longer, I'm already a danger to you!" he exclaims. He rummages through his pockets and comes up with his badge, he considers it for a moment, the fingers following the shape of the cold metal. He closes his eyes and pushes it into Gene's hand.

Gene looks down at it as if he can't believe what he's seeing, then his face morphs into a snort of anger, and he thrusts Sam back, his palm on his chest, he pushes and pushes, as if he wants to shove the badge under his skin, inside his flesh.

Finally, Sam's shoulders his the wall, but Gene's still pushing, and they're face to face, Gene's eyes wide and bright with fury. "I'm not accepting that badge from you, Sam," he growls into his face.

"You _have_ to!" he pleads. This is bloody hard, and Gene can't refuse, or Sam will forget all about his resolutions and cave in. And he can't afford that, they can't afford that.

"No." Gene says simply.

He shakes his head. "Look, Morgan has stopped just one word away from saying he has or can get blackmail material," he sighs. "I don't think-"

"So we stop it." And Sam looks up at that, frowning. "Now don't look at me like that. You said it yourself, it could ruin us."

"I'm more worried about you, Guv," he says. "Sam Tyler doesn't exist, after all." He shrugs and snorts, trying to lighten the situation, but it comes out more bitter than he intended, "and everybody already calls me a poofter, anyway."

"Don't be an idiot!" Gene exclaims. "Of course you exist," he says, smacking him on the shoulder. "See that? I can touch you, you _exist_."

He rolls his eyes and glares. "Aww, you're a dear, now don't you go and make me cry."

"Twat," Gene gives him a look, then he glances down at his hand, still pressing the badge against Sam's chest. "Agreed then?"

He lets his head fall back against the wall and thumps it, once, twice. He should be more firm, he should- He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "All right," he whispers, taking the badge from Gene.

"We have to tell them," Gene says after a moment, looking out in the direction of the squad room.

"You can't," Sam shakes his head. "They'll start to act funny around Malcolm and he'll suspect something."

The Guv frowns down at him. "You don't have much faith in them, do you?"

"It's not-" he stops and sighs. "Look, can you guarantee that you'll get them to properly follow procedures?" Gene snorts, but he goes on, relentless, "because that's the only thing that can keep you afloat, right now. Malcolm still hasn't witnessed anything particularly despicable, so…" he trails off when he sees the Guv look away, clearing his throat. "Has he?" he frowns, suspicious.

Gene sniffs. "We had to bring in the owner of the car we, um, found you in," he replies. "But Parkman wasn't there."

"Guv-"

"Listen, I-"

He draws up his hands. "All right, all right!" he exclaims. "But from now on straight as an arrow and clear as crystal," he says. "Now, do you think they can manage that?"

"I trust them. Don't you?"

"I trust them to try as hard as they can," he replies. "Doesn't mean they can do it."  
Gene gives him a long look. "You're an arsehole, Tyler," he says, lowly, seriously. Then he takes a step back, "find Parkman and keep him occupied for half an hour."

Sam sighs, but follows Gene out of the office a moment later.

 

*

*

*

*

 

"I'm mad," he says to the empty room. "I'm mad," he repeats, then, more sure.

"Are you?" she asks, coming towards him, the bloody clown clutched against her chest.

"I am," he says, nodding and tossing back the last of the Scotch in his glass. "I'm talking to a girl that's come out of the bloody telly."

"But when are you mad?" she says. "1973? 2006?"

He snorts. "I could be mad in both for all I know."

"But who is mad? Sam Tyler?" she goes on, taking another step toward where he's sitting down on the floor. "Sam Williams?"

"I'm Sam Williams. I've got amnesia. Sam Tyler doesn't exist."

She shakes her head. "But you're Sam Tyler."

He frowns, because that's true. When he looks in the mirror he sees Sam Tyler's face, a face that he's seen all of his life. Gene swears his face is Sam Williams' though. He squints up at the Test Card Girl, and maybe she's the least of his problems at the moment.

"I'm Sam Tyler," he says. "_Tyler_. I have nothing in common with Sam Williams."

Except his body.

"Are you sure, Sam?" she asks, with a small smile.

He frowns and tries to think about it, and maybe he really shouldn't listen to her. Aren't you supposed to never trust the voices in your head, anyway? Actually, he's pretty sure hearing voices in the first place isn't a good sign at all.

And suddenly it comes to him.

St. Christopher is the patron saint of fucking _travellers_.

"The bloody medal," he whispers, but he's alone now, she's back in the TV.

*

*

*

*

Sam raps on the door softly, before entering and closing it behind him. Gene doesn't look up from whatever he's reading. "Sit," he says.

Sam shakes his head and leans back against the door. "No, thanks, I'd rather stand."

The Guv looks up at him and for a moment Sam fears the worst. "You're stayin'," he says, and Sam lets out the breath he's been holding for what feels like an eternity.

He smiles openly. "Gene, thank you…I-" he laughs. "This is _great_ news!"

"Something workin' our way for once, eh?" Gene says, standing up from behind his desk. "You know what I'm thinkin'?" he asks, coming to get his coat from the rack.

Sam chuckles and pretends to think about it. "Pub? My round?"

Gene looks down at him with his eyes wide in wonder. "Bloody Nora, Gladys!" he exclaims, "you can read minds, now?"

"It's all part of the special training we get in Hyde."

Gene's face falls and he frowns. "Really?"

"Just joking!" he snorts, smacking his shoulder, lightly.

"Right," Gene sniffs. "I knew that."

Sam's grin widens, but abruptly falls off when Gene reaches around him to get to the knob, effectively trapping him against the door. He swallows, and face to face like this it's too much of a temptation, and Gene's eyes darting down to his mouth, his own fixed on Gene's lower lip- Right.

He looks sideways and gently pushes Gene away. "Guv…" he starts.

Gene takes a step back, clearing his throat. "Right, um…"

And it's been barely two days, how are they supposed to last? Without counting the fact the last time they had sex was…well, before he died. And to think there was time when he thought a relationship – any kind of relationship, even friendship – with Gene would be ridiculous. Actually, it is pretty ridiculous, because a gay, clandestine affair with your superior officer, who might or might not be a hallucination, in 1973? _Absolutely_ ridiculous, even leaving out the zombie thing. But as Gene's remarked multiple times, the sex is great.

Gene's looking pointedly at him, and the silence in the small office grows progressively longer and more awkward, until Sam realizes that he is, in fact, blocking the way out. Instead of stepping away from the door, he turns and opens it, walking into the squad room, feeling like a man reborn.

He knows he's grinning like a moron, but he can't stop, not even when he meets Malcolm's frowning gaze.

"Raymondo!" Gene exclaims, slapping him on the back. "Aren't you glad we get to keep Gladys?"

Ray munches thoughtfully on his gum, then glares darkly at Sam. "Can't we get a last minute trade?"

He just rolls his eyes and shakes his head with a small smirk, because it's not like he expects warm and fuzzy from Ray, but this is _normal_, at least.

Chris grins and bumps Ray's shoulder. "Well, at least the Boss is a United fan."

Next to him, Gene frowns and pursues his lips. "On second thoughts…"

Sam just snorts and shares a smile with Annie. "You're staying, then?" she asks.

He shrugs, "I guess."

"You look glad," she says. "All smiling. It's not so bad, see?"

He frowns at her, confused. "What?"

"Here," she replies. "Even if it's not home."

He's still blinking at her when Malcolm shoulders past him. "Must you have everything?" he hisses into his ear, but before Sam can reply he's gone.

_"I've got a family, Sam!"_

He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind but it's useless, and Sam is back once again to struggling, always one step behind.

 

*

*

*

*

Sam moves aside to dodge one of Gene's arms as he tries to put on his coat. "I think- Ow," he says, as the hand smacks his nose on the way back. "I think Malcolm doesn't like me anymore."

"Poor Gladys," Gene snorts. "Nobody wants to play with ya. You'll die an old spinster."

Sam sinks lower in the car seat, his arms crossed over his chest. "This is serious," he pouts. "He doesn't like me."

"What the hell do I care?" Gene grumbles, then stops and turns to look at Sam. "Why're you tellin' me this, Tyler? This is ever girlier than yer usual girly, poncey behaviour."

He shrugs and falls against the car door, hitting his cheek on the glass. "He used to like me. Now he doesn't," he says. "'S strange. That's all."

Gene curses, and Sam has once again to dodge a flailing arm.

"We talked about how very The Sweeney you all are," he says. "I thought we were friends."

"What's the Met's gotta do with us?" Gene snorts and smacks him again on the nose.

"No, it's- That's a _show_." He pushes the hand away. "Oi! What's with the arms?!" he exclaims.

Gene grunts and falls back against the seat. "This soddin' thing doesn't work."

"It's a bloody coat, Guv," he says to the to the roof. "It doesn't 'not work'!"

"Well, this doesn't!"

Sam turns to get a good look and snorts. "You've got it arse about face, Guv," he giggles. "You're pissed!"

This time the slap that hits him in the face is voluntary. "Look who's talking, Gladys!" Gene exclaims, "you've been nursin' yer broken heart all evenin'."

"You're je-alous!" he sing-songs and giggles again.

"And you're pis-sed!" Finally Gene's managed to put on his coat the right way, and he's now patting himself down, presumably in search of a cigarette. "I ain't jealous, anyway."

"You don't need to be. He looks like Vinnie Jones," Sam says, as if that explains everything. Something hits him in the chest and falls down on the seat, between his legs. He frowns and picks it up. "Lube? Where did this come from, Guv?"

"Me pocket," Gene says, and suddenly he's all plastered up against his side, a hand groping between Sam's legs and his mouth chewing and nibbling on his neck.

"Uh, Guv…weren't we supposed to stop this?" he wonders aloud, but he spreads his legs, making more room for Gene's questing hand.

"Shut up, Tyler."

"We're in public…" Sam tries again, but tilts his head so that Gene has better access to his neck.

Gene raises his head and glares at him. "Are we gonna shag or not?"

"Guv…We-" the hand between his legs squeezes and really, it's not like he has any objections left.

He turns his head, opening his mouth to meet Gene's, one of his hands sliding down his chest to his fly, the other circling around his back, under the jacket.

Despite his inebriated state, Gene's fingers deftly undo his fly and find their way inside his pants, gripping his erection and moving up and down in long, hard strokes. Sam moans in the kiss, and he has to stop trying to reciprocate, and just hold onto Gene's shoulders to keep himself grounded, panting and gasping against his open mouth. The speed of the strokes increases, they become more erratic, and in the attempt to grant Gene more room, he raises one knee and bangs it against the dashboard, but he doesn't care at all because he's coming, with a desperate sob, he's coming.

Gene carries on his petting for a few moments, then his hand strokes along the inside of his thigh, coming to rest near his knee and squeezing gently, and Sam's going to have come stains on his favourite pair of trousers. He's going to regret that in the morning, but right now he couldn't give a damn.

Gene hums into his mouth, but he doesn't stop his lazy kissing, open-mouthed and obscene, and if he could see himself now he'd probably die of embarrassment at the cheesy pornographic picture they represent, but he's pissed and he can't remember the last time he's felt this…free. Of boundaries, of convention, of rules. Or maybe his brain, clouded by the fumes of alcohol, still hasn't fully registered the implications that having sex in a semi-public place entails.

Gene pushes against his shoulders, creating some space between them. He tries to go back to him, though, to his mouth, back to kissing and he protests weakly when Gene pushes more firmly.

"You alright, Gladys?" Gene asks, letting him go, and Sam sags against him, mumbling against his neck. "You're not falling asleep, are ya?" he asks, "because I could do with a hand 'ere," he says, taking Sam's wrist and guiding his hand down, to bring it in contact with his erection, still trapped under two layers of clothing.

Sam works on the fly clumsily, and after three tries he finally manages to sneak a hand inside. He slides down Gene's chest, ending up with his face smashed up against his belly before he's able to continue his downward journey. He finds himself in an awkward position, half lying, half curling over the two seats, the gear shift painfully thrust against his ribs. The hand at the back of his head presses down, though, and he buries his face against Gene's crotch, nuzzling and licking, and finally opening his mouth to take him in.

"Ah, bloody hell, Sammy," Gene's voice hitches and his hands stoke down his shoulders, and guide Sam's head up and down, up and down.

He shifts to adjust the angle, but he bumps in the wheel a few times and he makes to raise his head, but Gene's hands push down, and down he goes, stretching as wide as he can to accommodate him, following his thrusts, until he can't breathe properly any more and has to come up for air.

A lick and a suck and Gene's coming, as well, on his trousers, on Sam's face, on his shirt. He coughs a little and rubs his cheek against Gene's belly, because tomorrow he'll wake up with a nasty hangover and only blurry memories, but damned if he'll be the only one waking up with come stains on his clothes.

He seems to recall there's an actually valid reason they shouldn't be doing this.

"The whole no sex thing?" he says, with the tone of somebody who's reached a profound conclusion. "Not working."

"No shit."

He lays there, then, Gene's thighs as a pillow. "I'm sleepy," he mumbles.

He's lifted up the back of his collar, and he lands more or less upright in the passenger seat. Hands are at his crotch again, and he squints down at them, interested, wondering what they're trying to do.

Oh, tucking him in, then.

The hands leave him far too soon, and Sam is left without support, feeling confused and light-headed. And uncomfortable. He slips a hand under his arse, between his thigh and the car seat, and retrieves the lube he's sat on. He frowns at it, then turns to Gene who's managed to do up his trousers and is now looking for the keys.

"We didn't get around to use this, after all," he says.

Gene considers it, then shrugs. "Would ruin the upholstery if I shagged you in 'ere."

Sam rolls his eyes and tosses him the lube. "I don't know if I should be more worried that you'd gladly bend me over and have your wicked way with me in a public place, or that the car won and you wouldn't," he says, tilting sideways, his forehead leaning on the glass of the side window.

Gene gives him a long look. "You're starting to get sappy, Tyler," he tells him. "I'm taking you home."

Sam nods and yawns, not really having the strength for a sarcastic comeback or any other kind of comment.

"Don't sleep in the car this time, you crazy lunatic," Gene tells him, as Sam gets out of the car, once they're outside his flat.

"Don't have the car tonight, Guv," he replies, scratching the back of his head and blinking at him, confused.

"Then don't sleep in the doorway!" Gene shouts at him, revving the engine and screeching away.

And really, it's very sweet that the Guv is so concerned about him.

 

*

*

*

*

Sam stumbles up the stairs, losing his balance and crashing into the wall a few times. He's managed to fish out the keys from his pocket, he's already thinking about his bed and right now, exhausted as he is, it looks like the Promised Land.

When he reaches his hallway, though, he freezes in his tracks.

"Hey, Sam," Malcolm greets him, standing up from the floor where he's been sitting, his back against Sam's door.

He blinks at him. "Hi," he replies, confused at the turn of events. "I thought you'd gone home," he continues, recalling Malcolm's rather brief presence at The Railway Arms, just a few hours earlier. Not that he blames him, since it was a 'Tyler gets to stay and you don't' party, or at least those being the overtones.

Malcolm shrugs. "I decided I should thank you properly," he says, showing him the bottle of wine in his hand.

Sam frowns at it, then looks up at Malcolm. "Why? I get to stay in your place," he says, and Malcolm's jaw clenches. He might not be the most sensitive person when drunk.

"Well, yeah. But it was inevitable, really," Malcolm says. "I was the new bloke, of course they were gonna choose you from the start."

He frowns, not very convinced of that, and there's something tickling at the back of his mind, because if Malcolm is really working with Morgan, there's no way he'd be so calmly resigned and bring wine to toast to Sam's staying in A Division.

"You're not gonna let us inside?" Malcolm asks, amused and only then Sam notices he's been standing in front of the door for quite some time now, keys suspended a few inches from the lock.

He shakes his head and opens the door, stepping aside to let Malcolm in.

"That's 1973 interior design for you," he says, trying for some humour when Malcolm sweeps his gaze around the room. "I really, really miss my old flat."

"I know," Malcolm nods. "I've already been here."

"Right, when-" Sam clears his voice and closes the door tossing the keys on the table and going to the sink to get two glasses.

_"You fancy some wine?"_

"You fancy some-" he frowns, that's not right. Malcolm's brought the wine, Sam hasn't got any. "You wanna open that bottle?" he asks instead.

"Sure," Malcolm replies, going to retrieve the corkscrew. He watches, confused, as he moves around the room, his movements sure, without hesitation.

"You know where I keep the corkscrew," he says, and it's more of a statement than a question.

"I told you," Malcolm replies, uncorking the bottle with a pop. "I've already been here. I took you home, Sunday. You still don't remember?"

"No, but I read your statement," he says, trying to recall if Malcolm ever hinted to them drinking from the bottle of wine found empty at the scene.

_"I have a family, Sam."_ But he already knows that.

He shakes his head to clear it from the voices, and holds out the glasses from Malcolm to fill.

"What is it?" Malcolm asks, putting the bottle down and taking his glass from his hand.

"It's just-" he starts, then stops, trying to find the right words. "I've read all the reports, but I'd like to hear your version of the facts from, you know, _you_."

Malcolm nods thoughtfully as he takes a sip of the wine, then he meets his eyes. "You sure you don't remember anything?"

Sam shakes his head no, because if that's not entirely the truth, it's not a lie either. There're voices in his head, Malcolm saying things, but he can't really put them in a way that makes sense.

"We came here," Malcolm says. "We drank some wine. Very much like now, actually."

Sam nods and finishes his wine, abandoning the glass on the tabletop to look around the room with a wide, encompassing gaze. His eyes linger on the phone. "Gene told me I called The Railway Arms twice," he says. "To talk to him about something important."

Malcolm nods and leaves the glass on the table, as well.

_"You shouldn't have done that."_

"They found the phone cable unplugged when they investigated the flat," and it still is, Sam hasn't had the time to fix it. "As if somebody had torn it from the wall," he concludes, looking at Malcolm, carefully.

"As if somebody didn't want you to talk to him," Malcolm nods, as if agreeing with him. He takes a step forward, Sam taking one backward to keep distance between them.

"Gene told me I'd been trying to speak with him all of Sunday, actually," he goes on. "Why did I need so badly to speak with him?"

_"I have a family, Sam. I want to go back. I need to go back!"_

alcolm takes another step forward and Sam another one backward, but his flat is very far from being roomy, it's barely habitable actually, and the space to go on with this sort of dance is bound to end pretty soon.

"I've been there, Malcolm," Sam says evenly, calmly, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. "And I've probably told you already, that's not the answer."

Malcolm advances on him again and Sam's shoulders touch the wall, and he knows _now_, even though he still can't remember everything, he knows why he needed so desperately to speak with Gene, to warn him, but it's not going to be of much use if he dies again, is it? Assuming he won't wake up if he does. But no, the doctors in his head – in 2006 – said another crisis would be fatal. And he has to suppress the urge to laugh, because of course dying would be _fatal_.

"I've got a family in 2006, Sam!" Malcolm shouts, and this time it's not a voice in his head, it's not fractured memories. This time it's him, drunk and tired against a motivated man two times his size. "I've got a wife and a daughter!"

"Destroying Gene is not the answer!" Sam shouts back at him. "I told you! I've _tried_! There's got to be another way!"

"I don't care!" Malcolm hisses. "This is not real! _They_ are not real! You're probably not real, either!" he says, tapping his fingers against his temples and Sam watches, fascinated and horrified, because this could easily be him, this _has been_ him.

"I'm _real_! How can I prove it to you?" he exclaims, then inspiration strikes. "Do you speak French?"

Malcolm seems to be taken aback. "What? No."

"Well, _I_ do!" he says. "_Moi et toi, nous sommes fous. Surtout toi_! Now do you honestly believe your mind could have made that up?"

Malcolm narrows his eyes at him. "For all I know my mind could be just playing tricks on me."

He rolls his eyes. "So now the French are just figments of your imagination?" he snorts, but when Malcolm snarls at him he raises his hands. "Maybe, maybe this isn't real, yeah. But what if it is!" he counters. "Are you willing to take that chance? To ruin their lives, to kill somebody?"

Malcolm snorts. "Maybe you didn't want it bad enough," he says. "Maybe-" but he's cut off when Sam launches forward, sinking his elbow into his stomach with all of his strength.

Malcolm crumples down with a gasp, and Sam runs for the door, because there's no way he's staying to engage into a fight against a rugby player that looks like Vinnie Jones and is probably just as mean. His escape is short-lived, though, and just as he opens the door, only a couple inches really, a hand from behind slams it closed again.

"Not so fast, Tyler," Malcolm hisses into his ear, then he grabs the back of his head and bashes it against the wood several times, until there are splinters biting in his cheek and his vision becomes blurry, the room swimming before his eyes.

Sam tries to hit him with anything that he's able to move, but in his confused – and probably concussed – state he's clumsy and slow, and the only kick that manages to hit home serves only to piss Malcolm off even more. A shower of blows rains against his kidneys, and he slumps to the ground, breathless and gasping.

Nothing happens for several moments and he's about to stand back up and try to defend himself, when something slips around his neck and pulls, making him fall back, down on the floor. The band of leather – Malcolm's belt, presumably – tightens and Sam can't breathe any more, and he's kicking the air, and his fingers tug and pull to create some space between the belt and his neck, but they keep slipping with no hold.

His vision is becoming grey at the edges and he wants to shout, but the only sounds that come out of his mouth are only strangled gasps. And Sam knows this is it, and while he certainly doesn't want to die, a part of him is observing the whole situation with a sort of clinical detachment, wondering what will happen now, if he's going to wake up again in the morgue in a few days, or maybe another thirty-three years in the past, or-

Everything becomes black for a moment, then long, fast fingers fumble with the belt at his neck, and suddenly the constriction is gone and he can breathe again, deep lungful of precious air, and he's coughing and hacking and almost throws up, his throat scratchy and rough as is he's swallowed sandpaper.

"Easy there, Sammy," a voice soothes him, and he's lifted by the shoulders, his head guided to rest against a wide chest, and he would return the almost-embrace if his arms had enough strength in them and didn't feel like lead.

"Gene," he croaks against the coat, and the heart under his ear, under the shirt, is beating fast. "Gene," he repeats.

"Bloody hell, Sam," Gene whispers, and he sounds stunned – no, _shocked_.

"Malcolm?" he asks.

"Bastard managed to get away," Gene says, and when Sam turns to look, the door's practically imploded, the too-familiar sight eliciting a weak smile on his lips. And he must have lost consciousness for more than a moment or two not to notice that.

"Why didn't you go after him?" he asks, quietly, and he can barely hear himself.

The hands keeping him upright are trembling slightly, and there's a hitch in Gene's voice when he speaks. "I couldn't- Jesus, Sam, you looked _dead_."

He nods against Gene's chest, and coughs again, lightly. A hand lifts his head, thumb stroking his cheek, and Sam opens his mouth to the kiss.

"Not that I don't appreciate it," he whispers when they come apart, "but why are you here? I thought you'd be home by now."

Gene retrieves something from his pocket and shows him his hand, holding the lube. "I figured we could use this, after all."

Sam snorts and shakes his head. "I know I'm probably going to regret this," he says, almost to himself, "but next time I bring up your endless libido as a criticism? Feel free to kick me."

Gene smirks down at him. "Oh, trust me, I _will_."

 

*

*

*

*

Gene's office door is closed, the blinds drawn, but it's not like Sam or the other men – and woman – in the squad room don't know what's going on inside. People on the other side of Manchester probably have a good idea, as well. He sighs and leans his head back, looking up at the ceiling and wondering if the Guv's shouting could maybe bring the plaster down.

Behind the closed doors something hits something else, and he hopes it's only Gene's palm against a random piece of furniture, and not Morgan being slammed against a wall.

He scratches at his still aching neck, now decorated with a purple, regular-shaped bruise where the belt tightened against him. Gene told him he looked healthier when he was dead, and it's probably true. Next to him, both Annie and Chris give him worried glances.

"Are you all right Sam?" Annie asks, not for the first time.

He nods but he can still feel their eyes fixed on him. And Ray's glare, as well. He's not really sure if he's more jealous because he's getting all of Annie's attention, or Chris'. Frankly, he doesn't care.

Finally the door opens, and they all straighten up as Morgan comes out, a frown on his face, but otherwise appearing normal to them. He takes in the squad room, and his eyes linger on Sam for a moment, the disapproving frown deepening, before he nods and leaves, Ray making rather rude gestures at his back.

"Knock it off, Ray!" Gene orders, leaning against the door-frame, then he looks at him. "A word, Tyler."

Sam hangs his head and comes away from the desk, following Gene inside the office. He sighs and shakes his head, the others have heard rumours and he thinks it's better to tell the truth at this point, rather than let their minds make up wild stories about this. And it's Gene that's always insisting they're a team, anyway.

"We have to tell them," he says. "You can't go on with all this secret business every time you need to tell me something. They're going to notice something's off, sooner or later."

Gene raises his eyebrows at him. "All right, then. What do you want me to tell them first? That you were dead? That you come from the future? That you're some other bloke?"

He glares at him and sits down on the couch. "Be that way, then," he says. "What did Morgan say? We heard only your side of the conversation."

Gene sits on his chair, leaning back and lying his feet on the desk. He puts a cigarette into his mouth and lights it, dragging the wait for a while. "Nothing," he replies, at last.

He frowns. "What do you men 'nothing'? He must have said something."

"Oh, he talked a whole lot," the Guv nods. "But he didn't say much."

He narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. "You didn't somehow let it slip that we know about the undercover job, did you?"

Gene gives him a long look. "You think I'm a complete twat, don't you Tyler?"

"No, but-"

"Then don't say things like that!" Gene yells. He clears his voice, then continues, "he seemed surprised when I told him about Parkman, though."

Sam nods, because that's been all Malcolm, he never thought Morgan would have anything to do with it. He's trying to bring Gene down, but through procedures and with a genuine investigation to back him up, he'd never resort to murder to get rid of a possible threat. Except, of course, the little question of the blackmail. And it's not the first time that he wonders why he chose this side, Gene's side. Morgan is more along the lines of what he believes in as a copper, and he should probably help him, and he _wants to_ sometimes, because there's a limit to his patience and every sarcastic comment from Ray, and every bit of lunch that ends up on the evidence, and every punch thrown in Lost and Found brings him closer to that limit.

He rubs his face, "Malcolm tried to- well, he _killed_ me because I found out he wanted to bring you down."

"He did?"

"He still does," Sam replies. "Why he's got it against me, though, I don't know. He's meant to stop _you_, after all."

"Must be that Kermit thing you told me about."

"What?" Sam frowns at the non-sequitur, then he shakes his head, grinning. "Oh, you mean _Karma_."

"Yeah, whatever," Gene shrugs.

"He wants to go back home," he continues. "I told him that wasn't going to work."

"You sound so sure."

"Because I've tried it," he replies. "When Ray screwed up, and it didn't work."

The Guv is silent for a long time, and Sam listens to every drag he takes on the cigarette. "You really want to go home, don't you?" he asks quietly, after a while.

"I don't know where is home any more," he says. "But Malcolm wants it badly, and I think we've seen that nothing will stop him," he snorts and shakes his head. "I can't believe we had him under our noses all the time. It's a textbook case. The last person to see the victim _is_ the murderer."

"Yeah, and he was supposed to be me 'fresh pair of eyes'," Gene replies. "Thinking outside the box, me arse."

"What?"

"If I get my hands on him-" Gene starts, clenching his fist, as if to demonstrate what exactly he's got in mind.

"He'll get a fair trial," he interrupts. "For assault and attempted murder of a police officer."

The Guv rolls his eyes with a disgusted face. "Of course he will, Tyler."

"And then we'll uncover Morgan's operation," Sam continues. "It's not like he's doing something illegal, but it'll surely undermine the trust every police officer has in him."

Gene gives him a long, appreciating look. "I like the way you think, Tyler."

"Now we only have to find him."

Gene wiggles his eyebrows and smirks at him. "Trust the Gene Genie."

"You know that the title of that song comes from a French, homosexual author, right?" he asks, grinning.

"_What_?" Gene exclaims, and Sam wonders if he's more miffed about the gay or the French part.

*

*

*

*

"No, Gene," he says. "And that's final."

"Do I look like I care what you're thinking, Gladys?" Gene replies, taking off his coat and tossing it over the back of the chair.

"No, you usually don't," he concedes. "But I'm a grown man, I don't need to a bloody babysitter," he exclaims, letting the plates fall on the table with an angry gesture.

Gene arranges his in front of him, and glances at him, sceptically. "Apparently you do," he says, "or we wouldn't be here in the first place."

"My point is," Sam continues, carrying the pan to the table, "I don't need protection now that we know it's Malcolm."

"Oh, sure," Gene nods. "You're just gonna kick him into submission with your secret fighting skills, then," he snorts. "It went so well last time."

Sam slaps Gene's helping down into his plate, glaring at him. It's not like he needs the reminder, anyway, his right eye's just started to reopen and his back and neck are still black and blue.

A hand sneaks around him and pinches him on the bum, and Sam yelps and almost drops their dinner. "You'd make a fine waitress, Gladys." Gene smirks at him.

He glares. "From now on you can fetch your bloody food by yourself, Hunt," he hisses. "And stop picturing me in a French maid outfit!"

Gene blinks at him, surprised, then a sneer widens on his lips. "A French maid?" he repeats. "You wanna tell me something, Tyler?"

Sam empties the contents of the pan into his plate, then goes and drops it in the sink. "I said stop it, I refuse to take part in your dirty, stupid fantasies."

"I thought this was supposed to be _your_ fantasy, Sammy-boy," Gene smirks. "And you were the one to suggest the French maid in the first place. _Mon cherie_."

Sam glares at him and slams his fist down on the table. "Shut up!" he exclaims. "You're trying to change the subject."

"Oh, yeah?" Gene asks around his mouthful, and Sam has to look away to avoid seeing all the food going around in his mouth. "Then let's go back to the subject. You don't want protection. I don't care what you want. I'm the Guv, I win. The end," he concludes with a tight smile, before going back to his dinner.

So Gene's decided to be like that, well Sam can play rough as well. "What about your wife, Guv?" he asks. "These days you're always eating out, you come home late, if you come at all, you-"

Gene slams his hand down, and the table creaks and shakes, not used to the abuse like the one in Lost and Found is. "That's none of your business, Tyler," he grinds out. "And you can stop right there, because I'm not gonna change my mind. It's bad enough you're playing bait."

"_Bait_?" Sam snorts. "I'm holed up in my crappy flat waiting for you lot to find Malcolm and I'm bait?" he shakes his head in disbelief. "Leave me your gun and go out the door, we'll have better chances that way."

Gene shoots a long, serious look at him, making Sam squirm under the scrutiny until he has to lower his eyes. "We look after our own," Gene says quietly, after a moment. "Why is it so hard for you to understand?"

He rubs his face, pressing his fingers against his eyes. He shakes his head. "It's not-" he takes a deep breath. "It drives me crazy, this… sitting down and waiting for something to happen."

Gene nods thoughtfully, then he raises an eyebrow at him. "I know a nice pastime."

He rolls his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder how you manage to walk around, because the way you talk, you must have a permanent stiffy." He yelps and drops his fork when Gene's foot connects with his shin. "Ow!" he exclaims incredulously. "You _kicked_ me!"

Gene shrugs and give him an innocent smile. "You told me to."

Sam groans, rubbing his aching shin, and he _really_ should have known he would regret that. "I've got no hope to get rid of you, do I?" he finally says, resigned.

"Nope." Gene replies. "But look at it this way, now you can have all shagging you want, whenever you want."

"You've got that wrong," he says. "The one permanently randy is you, Guv."

But then he thinks about have Gene all for himself, 24/7, in his flat, eager and willing to fuck whenever they want. He still isn't the one obsessed with sex, but he has to admit the idea's starting to appeal to him. And maybe you can't spend all your life fucking, confined in a dingy flat and ignoring the world outside, but you certainly can pass a couple of days like that. Like a holiday. In a dingy flat. With guns and people who want to kill you.

"I see you're starting to warm up to the idea," Gene says, and the leer he's sporting tells Sam he most definitely meant the pun.

"I might be…persuaded into seeing the positive side of this thing," he admits with a small nod. "After all I'm a very open-minded person."

"I think you'll find I can be very persuasive," Gene replies and Sam ducks his head, grinning.

They continue the meal in silence until Gene's head shoots up and he tenses. "It just occurred to me," he says, frowning.

"What?" Sam asks.

"It's 1973."

"Well," he blinks at him. "And I thought I was the one with the time problems."

"No, I mean-" Gene shakes his head. "I've met you, little _you_. And you're _four_."

"It messes with me head alright!" Gene snorts. "I'm shagging a four year old kid!"

Sam gapes at him. "_Jesus_!" he exclaims, throwing his napkin at Gene. "Are you fucking _insane_?" he shudders. "I don't know how old Williams is, but I'm thirty-seven, Guv! You're not a bloody paedophile!" he drops his head down in his arms and thumps it against the tabletop a couple of times. "And thank you for putting that image into my head, by the way."

"Thirty-seven?" Gene repeats, frowning. "Wouldn't have thought you were that old."

"I am _not_ old!"

*

*

*

*

Two days later he thinks this babysitting thing might have been the best idea Gene's ever come up with.

If not for the fact that Gene and his gun have gone out to buy some cigarettes, of course. The Guv told him that Ray was on the way, and what's going to happen in ten minutes, anyway? Right. With his luck, Ray's probably down the pub having a pint or two with his mates while Sam is bleeding to death in his goddamn bathroom.

Grimacing, he applies more pressure on the knife wound right below his ribcage and tries to think of a plan. He looks around the small room, but there's nothing that could serve as a weapon in there, and of course his gun is in his jacket, hanging over the back of the chair. At least Malcolm hasn't found it, yet.

The door shudders under another kick and Sam pushes his back against it with all his strength, to offer some kind of support, his feet firmly planted on the floor. But he has to come up with something very soon, the wound in his side burns, and it's not like the door is a wonder in terms of sturdiness, anyway.

"I waited three days for Hunt to leave, Sam!" Malcolm shouts at him from the other side of the door. "And now you won't even come out and greet me properly?"

Another blow shakes the frame and then, suddenly, just next to the doorknob, the knife pushes through the wood, and for a moment Sam finds himself staring at his widened eyes reflecting in the blood – his blood – stained metal of the blade, a few inches from his face. This is bringing back all kind of disturbing flashbacks from The Shining.

The knife retreats and is thrust in again, this time slightly higher, and it's time Sam gets a move on. He stands up, pressing his arm against his belly, trying to staunch the flow as best as he can, and almost slips in the blood pooling at his feet. He stumbles, light-headed, and grabs the shower curtain, tugging at it. It takes two more pulls before it comes away completely, just in time as the door bursts open under one final, vicious kick.

Sam tosses the curtain at Malcolm, very much like a net, and he pushes past him, taking advantage of his momentary confusion.

His side is burning like fire now, the loss of blood making him dizzy, and pressing down on the wound makes him queasy. He almost slips again, but he's managed to reach his jacket, his fingers closing around the butt of his gun. He turns round, but before he can take aim Malcolm barrels into him, sending both of them to the ground.

Malcolm falls on top of him, knocking the wind out of him, and he knows he has to try and shoot him, because in a few moments the advantage of having the gun won't mean nothing, and Malcolm's superior strength and physical condition will prevail.

His wrist is knocked sideways by a shoulder, though, and the two shots miss their target, hitting the wall instead.

"Why the hell are you obsessed with killing me, you fucking bastard!" he yells, struggling against him.

Malcolm doesn't answer, though, and punches him right on the wound. Pain explodes, blinding and absolute, and he screams in agony. "Third time's the charm," Malcolm says, raising the knife, and Sam can barely see him, his vision swimming in and out of focus.

A single sound cuts through the buzzing in his ears, a gunshot, and above him Malcolm recoils back, a stunned expression on his face, as a red stain starts to blossom on his pale shirt. He gasps only once and falls sideways, half on, half off Sam.

"You all right, Boss?" a voice asks.

"Ray," Sam gasps as Malcolm's weight is taken off him. "I could kiss you right now."

There's a sharp intake of breath where Sam expected a snide remark, though, and he frowns. "That bad, huh?" he asks, craning his head down to check the state of his wound.

And it's bad indeed, now most of his shirt and his trousers are dark with blood, without counting the pool slowly widening under him. "I need an ambulance," he says, coughing and letting his head fall back again, against the hard floor.

"No shit," Ray snorts, taking out his radio. "The Guv's not gonna be happy."

"He shouldn't have gone out for his damn smokes in the first place," Sam says, and it's not like he's one to carry a grudge. "Bastard can't last a bloody minute without pollutin' his fuckin' lungs, can he?" he mumbles, his speech becoming slurred.

Ray looks down at him with a strange expression on his face, and it reminds Sam of the time when he was almost killed by that bomb, like he doesn't know what to do.

"I need to keep pressure on the…" he trails off and motions to the wound, but he's so weak he can barely lift his arm.

Ray kneels next to him and presses down on his wound, only to lift his hands again, when Sam hisses through his clenched teeth. He shakes his head. "N-no, it's all right, just press down."

Ray applies more pressure. "All right?" he asks.

Sam nods distractedly, his teeth chattering in the suspended silence of the room. "I'm cold," he says.

Ray sneaks a hand around his shoulders and props him up against his thigh. "Don't die on me, Boss," he says after a moment.

"Wouldn't give you the satisfaction, Sergeant," he whispers, but he closes his eyes.

*

*

*

*

Sam wakes up slowly, and he knows they must have given him a strong dose of painkillers, because all the sensations reach him as if through a filter, and everything around him is reduced to a pleasant buzz. He's in a hospital room, and no one is in here except him. But there're some magazines of dubious morality somebody's left lying on the bedside table, together with a pot of flowers and some 'get well soon' cards. And a very familiar coat is folded against the back of the chair drawn up next to the bed.

He smiles weakly as he imagines Gene sitting there and whiling away the time reading porn magazines, his feet propped up on the mattress, lazily smoking and taking the odd sip from one of his hip flasks.

He feels exhausted, though, and he's about to go back to sleep, when he hears footsteps approaching from the corridor.

It's not Gene, though. "Hi, Sam, welcome back."

"DCI Morgan," he greets, politely. "I didn't really expect you here."

"You were waiting for a different sort of DCI, perhaps." Morgan says, casting a glance to Gene's abandoned coat.

"I thought you'd gone back to Hyde," he replies, not really denying.

"I wanted to be present during Malcolm's questioning," Morgan says, then he sighs and shakes his head with a forlorn face. "I never had the chance, the way things turned out."

"Yeah, well…" he trails off, because what can you say in situations like this? 'Sorry my Sergeant shot your Inspector, but he was trying to kill me' doesn't sound right.

"You must understand Sam," Morgan tells him, earnestly, looking straight at him, "that if I had known this was going to happen, I would have never-"

He shakes his head. "It's all right, Sir. You can't really predict those things."

Like being crazy. Like going back in time.

"I suppose so," Morgan nods thoughtfully, then he gestures to the empty chair. "May I?"

"Of course," Sam replies, but he's wondering how long is it going to take for Gene to come back. If he's left his coat he can't have gone that far. "What's going to happen now?" he asks, quietly.

Morgan gives him a long look. "I don't know, Sam. Why don't you tell me?"

Sam takes a deep breath, and even with the screen of painkillers he feels the stitches in his side tugging, with a vague inkling of pain underneath. "I'm not gonna help you," he says, having reached that decision. "If that's what you're asking."

Morgan stares at him as if he's been slapped, then he sighs and shakes his head. "Sam, Sam, Sam," he says, softly, as if he were scolding a small child. "But this is all my fault, after all, isn't it?" he whispers to himself. "I should have stopped you. You weren't ready."

"Enough with that amnesia crap!" Sam exclaims, slamming his fist down on the mattress. "I've already told you, this is your own personal crusade against Gene!"

"We have to start somewhere," Morgan says.

"Have you considered that the cure could be worse than the disease?" he goes on. "Gene's methods may be excessive sometimes, but his heart and his mind are in the right place, and punishing him by taking away everything he lives for isn't fair! There're worse people than him, there're worse coppers than him!"

"You're not being objective, Sam," Morgan says, kindly. "This was our dream, a new way of policing."

"But Gene's learning!" he retorts. "He can change, he's already proved that!"

"I'm sorry, Sam." Morgan sighs, shaking his head. "We can't compromise."

Sam nods. "Then the price isn't worth it," he says.

"You were so close, Sam," Morgan says, regretfully. "You just needed another small effort and you'd have come home."

He narrows his eyes at him. "What do you mean?"

"You don't belong here, Sam," Morgan replies, standing up.

"What do you mean!" he repeats, louder.

"This isn't your place to be."

"I want to stay here!" he exclaims. "Do you hear me?"

"It doesn't work like that," Morgan shakes his head. "Sam Tyler doesn't exist, you made him up, a figment of your imagination. For you to come home, he must leave."

"No!"

But Morgan doesn't seem to have heard him, he just turns and walks away. When he opens the door light comes in from the corridor, and it's too bright too be either natural or artificial, and everything becomes white, too white, almost blinding. Sam shoots up in the bed, ignoring the pain in his side.

"_NO_!"

*

*

*

*


	3. Chapter 3

Annie knows there's something wrong as soon as she arrives at the hospital to relieve the Guv and finds him arguing loudly with a doctor.

"-his belly cut open!" the Guv's yelling. "His bloody head was fine, or as fine as it ever was! Then explain to me why-"

She doesn't stay to hear the rest of the conversation, and she hurries to Sam's room, her heart beating so fast she feels it could give out any moment. When she gets there she hesitates before crossing the threshold, afraid of what she'll find inside. The Guv said something about Sam's head, and she's already blaming herself, because maybe she could have prevented whatever mental condition he's in right now. She should have told sooner about his stories of the 'future'.

She takes a deep breath and steps inside. To her surprise, though, Sam looks all right. Well, as all right as a person in his condition can look. He's almost as pale as the sheets, and the bruises on his face and neck stand out sharply.

He turns to look at her, questioningly, and she smiles, trying not to let her worry show through. "How are you feeling, Sam?"

Sam frowns at her, cocking his head sideways. "Do I know you?" he asks, and for a moment it's as if the whole world comes crashing down on her.

She gapes at him, her mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out, and she has to sit down before her legs give out on her. Her hand shaking, she reaches for the chair and she falls down on it, her widened eyes still fixed on Sam.

"Sam, it's me," she says. "_Annie_."

He frowns at her, then he sighs and rolls his eyes. "Oh, I get it," he says. "You must be me bird or something." He lets his eyes travel over her body, then shrugs. "Not bad, I guess."

"No!" Annie exclaims. "I'm not your girlfriend, Sam. I'm your colleague, at CID. WDC Annie Cartwright," she says, then more desperately, "don't you remember me?"

He raises his eyebrows at her. "A woman detective? How modern."

"You made me a detective, Sam!" she exclaims.

"Did I?" he mutters to himself, then he shakes his head. "What the hell's goin' on?" he looks up at her. "Annie, right?" he asks and she nods. "I need you to find a person for me. DCI Frank Morgan, from Hyde."

She frowns, wondering why Sam would want to speak with him. "He was here," she tells him. "He left yesterday."

His head shoots up at that. "He was _here_? Why?"

"Sam…" Annie sighs, feeling her eyes well up with tears, because he really seems to remember nothing of the past few days, of the past few _months_.

"This is serious, Annie!" Sam exclaims, almost angry. "I need to speak with me DCI as soon as possible."

She nods and wipes her eyes. "I'll call the Guv," she says, standing up.

"Who?"

"The Guv," she repeats. "DCI Hunt."

"No, not your DCI, love," he says, shaking his head. "_My_ DCI. Frank Morgan."

She blinks at him. "S-Sure," she says, numb.

"And can somebody please tell me why the hell am I in hospital?"

"A man tried to kill you, Sam," she replies. "Three times."

Sam's eyebrows raise. "Relentless, wasn't he?" he snorts. "Where's he now?"

"He's dead. Ray killed him."

"Ray?" he asks, and his face is completely blank, devoid of all recognition, and Annie wants to cry.

She doesn't, though, and sniffs against the burning in her eyes. "DS Ray Carling."

He shakes his head. "Nope, doesn't ring a bell."

"It'll come back to you," she says, trying to be as reassuring as she can. "With time. You just have to be patient."

But she's not really sure about it, after all she's only got a BA in psychology and it's not like she's privy to all the wonders of the human mind. And amnesia is so rare and improbable that she can't even begin to think where to start from. Should they tell him about what's happened, or should they just let nature run its course and hope that the memories will come back eventually?

And it's not only that, Sam's gestures, his way of speaking, have changed. If it weren't for the fact that she's staring at him with her own eyes, she'd think he was another person.

"Annie?" he calls her.

"Yes?"

"Call DCI Morgan, please," he repeats. "And tell him to come back, I need to talk to him. Urgently."

She nods and walks to the door. The Guv's not gonna like this, at all. He already isn't, judging by the way he was yelling at that poor doctor, earlier. He's been hostile towards Morgan from the start, and she can't really blame him. After all, he was set to bring them all down, to destroy their lives, their careers. But Sam's been on their side all along, hasn't he?

"Annie!" he calls again, and she turns. "Tell him DI Sam Williams wants to speak with him."

*

*

*

*

"So you've seen him?" a voice says behind her and she jumps, startled.

When she turns around, the Guv is looking down at her, appearing to be calmly smoking his cigarette, but looking closely she can see the muscles of his jaw twitching, and his left hand clenching in a fist.

She nods and the Guv hums thoughtfully. "What did he tell you?"

"He doesn't remember anything," she says. Actually, that's wrong, he just doesn't remember _them_. "It's as if he's gone back to before he met us."

The Guv nods. "And he hasn't asked you anything?" he says, but he poses the question as if he knows the answer already.

"He asked me to find DCI Morgan for him," she replies. "And he called himself Sam Williams." The Guv tenses, gritting his teeth, and Annie is almost afraid to voice her thoughts. "Do you think…Do you think he lied to us?"

He turns to her. "Lied about what?"

"About that thing with DCI Morgan," she says. "About being… Sam Tyler."

"No," he replies, so sure that Annie wants to believe him, to have the same faith.

But she's probably the only one who's come closer to knowing Sam, and she's seen many things, and she's heard even more, and there's no way she can be one hundred percent sure about anything regarding Sam. She loves him, that she does, as a friend, as something more, but she can't trust him, not entirely.

"I wish I could believe that," she says, softly.

"Why? You don't?"

She shakes her head. "Sam is a… _peculiar_ person, Guv."

"To say the least," he snorts.

"What I'm trying to say," she continues, wringing her hands, "is that-"

"That he's a bloody nutter?" the Guv cuts her off. "I already knew that. _Everybody_ knows that. Sky's blue, scum is filth and Tyler's a nutter," he shrugs. "But a turncoat? No way."

Annie doesn't mention the time when Ray gave cocaine to their suspect, and Sam ignored her pleas and went to the Super, seemingly indifferent to the damage he could have caused to their careers. She doesn't know if the Guv knows about it, but she certainly doesn't want to find out now, when they have more pressing matters.

"I mean," she tries again. "Sam needs help."

For a moment the Guv seems to agree with her, nodding, but then his leg shoots forward, landing a vicious kick into one of the dustbins aligned against the wall. She jumps, startled, and he kicks the bin again, scattering rubbish all over the floor.

"Bloody bastard!" he shouts, his face contorted in anger.

"Guv!" she exclaims, trying to calm him down, when she sees a nurse resolutely marching towards them. "You're causing a scene!"

The Guv deflates all of a sudden, and he takes a step away from her, fishing out a hip flask from his coat and shaking it to see if it's still full. He gives a satisfied nod and takes a long sip.

"Guv! Annie!" comes Chris' voice, and when she turns she sees him and Ray coming towards them. "How's the Boss?"

The Guv snorts. "You deal with 'em Cartwright."

She frowns. "Where are you going, Guv?"

He shows her the rolled up magazine sticking out of his coat pocket. "Enjoying this month's centrefold," he says with a sneer.

She blinks at him and beside her Ray and Chris snicker.

"But what about Sam?" she exclaims.

"What about him?" the Guv repeats, then starts muttering to himself. "Out Tyler, in Williams. There's nothing we can do, trust me. Except maybe kill him and see what happens."

She stares at him, horrified. Now even the Guv's started losing his mind, and judging by the expressions on Ray and Chris' faces they seem to be thinking along those lines, as well.

"What d'you mean, Guv?" Chris asks, confused.

"Cartwright will tell you," the Guv replies. "I've got somewhere to be." He turns and walks away, leaving them to stare at his wide back as he makes his way to the exit.

"Annie?" Chris quietly asks her.

"I don't know, Chris," she replies, and it's the truth.

*

*

*

*

It's been two days since Sam woke up, and the situation at work hasn't changed much, except for Sam's vacated chair and some shift in the air that Annie isn't able to describe with words. The Guv especially; he walks around the CID with a deep frown and everyone is very careful to stay out of his way until he goes to barricade himself in his office for hours. He seems to have a glass of Scotch surgically attached to his hand, or at least he always has one whenever Annie sees him.

He acts just like he acted in the two days when they believed Sam was dead, actually the stifling atmosphere reminds Annie of those horrible hours, and it angers her, because Sam _isn't_ dead. He just needs some time to get healthy again, to cope. The Guv doesn't seem to understand that, though, and even if Annie admires him very much, she's not so blind as to condone his behaviour. Every time she brings up any word that starts with 'psych-' he snorts and calls Sam a nutter. It's moments like this she wishes Sam were here, because even if he talks of the future and of impossible things, he always listens to her and _accepts_ her, even is she's a bird. With Sam she doesn't have to work hard to prove she can be as good as anybody else, because he always starts from the premise that she just has to be herself.

"Just because he needs to relieve all the stress he's been through-" she starts for what feels like the millionth time.

And the Guv cuts her off once again. "Listen to me, Cartwright," he says sternly, and even over the distance separating them she can smell the stench of Scotch in his breath. "This is not an issue of Tyler being stressed, or a nutter, or whatever. The Sam who's woken up isn't Sam – _our_ Sam – any more. End of story."

"Guv, what you're saying is…" she trails off, trying to judge his possible reaction.

He snorts impatiently. "What I'm saying is what, love?"

"Impossible," she concludes, forcing herself not to look down and making an effort to meet the Guv's eyes boring into hers.

He stares at her for a long time, like he's trying to figure something out, then he nods and purses his lips. "How well did you- do you know Tyler?" he asks finally, and she frowns at the sudden change of subject. "I'm not asking if you were shaggin' him, love," he says with a sneer. "I just want to know how well d'you think you knew him."

And the question has changed as well, but Annie figures that's the gist anyway. "Fairly well," she replies. After all, she's been his confidante ever since he's arrived here, coming to her every time he wants to talk about something, about his fancy future or simple, ordinary things.

"Fairly well you say," the Guv repeats, nodding. "Then I want you to watch him, watch him closely, and you tell me he's the same bloke." She opens her mouth to reply, but he cuts her off with a glare. "He's not, there's nothing of Sam in that man. He's Sam Williams, do you remember Sam Williams, or all the things I've been tellin' you lot for the past few days have just entered one ear and shot out the other leaving nothing but empty air between them?"

She frowns, the Guv's told them all about this Sam Williams who was supposed to work undercover in their team, but she still hasn't fully understood Sam's involvement with him. All she knows is that Sam and the Guv spent long minutes behind closed doors in the office, talking with the blinds closed and, once finished, they would come out with wild stories about Sam not being dead but drugged, about DI Parkman, about DCI Morgan.

"Frankly sir, I can't understand what you're implying," she says.

He slams his hand down on the desk. "Bloody hell, Cartwright!" he bursts out. "I thought you were a bright bird!"

"I don't know what to think, Guv!" she exclaims. "Are you saying that Sam is really Sam Williams? That he really is against us?"

"I'm saying-" but he stops and shakes his head with a snort. "Yes, Cartwright. That's what I'm saying."

Her mouth opens and closes a few times, because what can she say to that? She can't exactly call the Guv a liar, and while she doesn't want to believe something like that could be true, the recent events seem to point in that direction.

"That's why you're acting as if he were dead, Guv?" she asks. "You never come to visit him at the hospital."

He snorts. "Would've been better if he'd stayed dead," he mutters.

"What?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head, then he nods outside to the squad room glimpsed through his office door, slightly ajar. "Now go and do some work, love. Stop pesterin' me."

She wants to stay, though, and try to speak with the Guv, to make him _understand_, but she knows how stubborn he can be, and she knows that when he says a conversation is over, then it's over, she's not Sam. So she just nods and makes her way to her desk.

The Guv closes the door behind her.

Twenty minutes later he comes out, and she's not surprised he's got another wild story ready for them.

"I'm taking Ray as me acting DI until Tyl- Williams comes back from the hospital," he says, and nobody points out his slip. "Everything we do must be checked, double checked and signed. No funny business if we want to keep workin' here." Several people groan in the room. "Shut up, you useless gits!" the Guv bellows and silence falls again. "Forget Tyler. Williams works for Morgan, but he doesn't know that we know, and it works to our advantage. We just have to hold out until they get bored with us and move on to somebody else. Litton, hopefully," he concludes. "Understood? I said, _understood_?"

Everybody murmurs their approval, Annie just lowers her head and says nothing.

*

*

*

*

She eyes Sam as he eats, his first supposedly solid meal in more than a week, and by the face he's pulling it's not exactly cause for celebrations.

He lets his spoon fall and leans back with a sigh. "I'm giving up."

"You need to eat, Sam," she says. "To build up your strength, to get healthier."

"Then get me some real food," he replies. "I fancy some eggs and bacon," he mutters, almost wistfully. "Me mum cooked a mean eggs and bacon."

She frowns at that. "Your mum?"

"Yep," he replies, then he turns to look at her. "Why are you here?"

She blinks. "Because you're my friend, Sam."

"I don't know you, though."

"You don't _remember_ me," she corrects.

He looks like he wants to reply to that, but then he just shakes his head. "What's it like to work with Hunt?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"I'll be starting in A Division after I'm out of here, won't I?" he shrugs. "Just curious, 's all."

"The Guv is a hard man," she says, carefully. "But just."

He nods as if he's expected that answer. "You respect him."

She gives him a long look. "Can I ask you something, Sam?"

"Sure."

"Who is Tony Blair?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. Should I?" he frowns. "Is he the one who put me here?

"No," she replies. "Just somebody you've mentioned to me before."

"I told you," he says with a sighs. "I don't remember anything about you, or Ray, or whoever this Blair fella is."

"But you remember your mum," she retorts, and even it's not intended as one, it comes out almost as a reproach. She clears her throat and looks down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"No, it's all right," he says. "I find it strange, as well."

"It's not strange," she replies. "It's just that sometimes, when the stress becomes too much, the mind needs to stop working for a while, until everything's right again."

"Like a holiday," Sam says, grinning.

She tries to smile back. "Yes, just like that."

"It's still strange, though," he says. "I remember everything about me, about me family. I remember when I was five, I fell and broke me arm," he raises his eyes to look at her. "I just don't remember you."

Annie swallows. "It's late," she says, suddenly, standing up from her chair. "I have to go."

Sam nods and follows her movements as she puts on her coat and retrieves her bag. He says nothing until she's at the door, though. "Hunt."

She turns around, "What?"

"Hunt," Sam repeats. "He called me Tyler."

Annie blinks at him, and the Guv was right. The way he speaks, the way he moves, the way he says her name or the Guv's. They're different. Sam's different. It's as if his memories of them aren't the only thing missing, it's as if Sam's completely forgotten how to be Sam Tyler. It's as if he really is another person. Sam Williams, her mind helpfully supplies.

She hesitates. "He's-" and what is she supposed to say? 'It's you, you just have to remember it.'? 'He was the first man who made me think that being me is worthy enough'. How can you describe a person in a word? "He's a person we used to know," she says, and it's not really a lie. "You look very much like him."

Sam gives her a long look, narrowing his eyes, and she can easily see that he's not persuaded at all. He nods in the end, though. "Right."

*

*

*

*

In the course of the questioning, the Guv has shot up from his chair four times; made a grab for their suspect, Cole Tanner, twice, and slammed his palms down on the table countless times. Annie supposes it could be worse, though. Tanner is still intact, after all.

Everybody made a surprised face when the Guv called her to take part in the interrogation, Ray's especially will keep her amused for a long time. But she knows the reason of his choice. It's the same reason why the Guv's hands are firmly planted on the desk, his fists clenching and unclenching. It's the same reason why in the silence of the room she can clearly hear the whir of the tape recorder.

She flips the pages in the folder open in front of her, letting her eyes drift over the typed words there, as she waits for the Guv to make his next move. He remains silent, though, and when she raises her eyes, she sees that he's staring at her, expectantly.

"Ah…" she starts, dropping her eyes to the file to check. "Your alibi for the night of the murder is unclear, Mr. Tanner."

Tanner sneers. "And what's a nice bird like you doin' here, love?"

"I'm working here, Mr. Tanner," she replies. "Now, the night of the murder. You said you were home, can somebody confirm that?"

"I didn't know they 'ad pretty things like you," Tanner says, leaning forward. "Damn coppers, they 'ave all the luck."

Beside her, the Guv tenses, but Tanner goes on, this time looking straight at him. "I know what I'd do to a nice pair o' tits like her, don't you, Mr. Hunt?"

The Guv shoots up, sending his chair backwards, and before she can do anything, his hands are gripping Tanner by lapels of his shirt, tugging and lifting him from his seat. She recovers quickly, though, and she lays a hand on the Guv's arm to prevent him from doing something too drastic.

"Nobody's interested in your sexual fantasies, Mr. Tanner," she says, straight into his eyes. "But you're the principal suspect in a murder investigation, and I'm sure in jail they'll know what to do to you. Meanwhile, me and me tits will be out here enjoying freedom and climbing the career ladder."

Tanner blinks and even the Guv shoots a surprised glance her way, before letting go of their suspect.

"Guv?" she says, leaning over and stopping the tape recorder. "Can I have a word?"

He nods and precedes her out of Lost and Found. Once outside, he lights himself a cigarette and turns to her, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the door. "Well?"

She shuffles on her feet. "I don't know, Sir," she starts, finally. "Except for the fact that he vaguely knew the victim and that his alibi is kind of weak, we have very few elements to make the accusations stick."

"He did it," the Guv says, and once again she wishes she had his faith about these things. "You saw his face when he looked at the pictures of the dead bird," he snorts. "Bloody bastard did it and _enjoyed_ it."

She saw his face, and the Guv's probably right, but if they're gonna do this the 'Sam Way', they need evidence, not feelings.

"Forensics found nothing," the Guv mumbles, shaking his head. "At this point we need a confession."

"Yes, but how?"

The Guv shakes his head again, then he pauses halfway through one of his drags, and stands there, cigarette suspended on the way to his mouth, his eyes narrowed and fixed on a spot on the opposite wall.

"Guv?" she asks, frowning.

"I've got an idea," he says, then calls out, "Ray!"

Ray's head pokes out of the doors leading to CID. He spots them by the door to Lost and Found and makes his way there. "What, Guv?" he asks.

"Grab a sheet of paper," the Guv tells him. "Give me ten minutes and then you come in there with yer ugly mug and show it to me."

Ray gives him a confused look. "What kind of paper?"

"Whatever, it doesn't matter," he replies with an impatient gesture. "As long as you say it's from forensics and you wear that smug look you always get when I let you win at darts."

"Uh, sure, Guv," Ray replies, but he still doesn't sound convinced.

"Ten minutes, Raymondo," the Guv reminds him, pointing a finger at him, then he turns to her. "After you, Cartwright."

She hesitates, her hand on the doorknob. "Are you sure it's gonna work, Guv?"

"Tell you a secret, love," he says, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Mostly, scum is stupid. And a guilty conscience makes you see things that aren't there," he pauses and nods in the direction of the closed door. "And that scum in there. Very stupid _and_ very guilty."

"Yes, Guv."

"Good then, Flash Knickers," he grunts, flicking the cigarette to the ground. "Get a bloody move on, we don't have the whole damn day."

She nods and pushes at the door, blinking at the sudden change of lighting as she makes her way to the chair. She waits for the Guv to sit down as well, then she pushes the buttons on the tape recorder and waits for the Guv to start.

After a couple of minutes Tanner starts to fidget, nervously looking from one to the other. "Well?" he asks, after a moment. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

The Guv sniffs and leans forward, almost confidentially, his hands joined on the desk, fingers interlaced. "Tell you what, Tanner," he says, stopping the tape recorder. "I'll make you a deal. Confess and that's a lot of years off your sentence."

"Yeah, right," Tanner snorts. "Why would I want to confess? You've got nothing that says I killed that bird."

"That's where you're wrong," he says, with a smirk. "You wouldn't believe the stuff they can do in forensics, now, boy."

"Yeah?" Tanner snorts, thrusting his chin forward, but Annie can see that his confidence is starting to crack. "Like what?"

The Guv shoots a glance her way, and this is her cue. She clears her voice, trying to think of the things Sam's said, during one of his frequent speeches on how outdated forensics and policing in general are in 1973. Personally she's not seen a problem, though; after all, twenty years ago they didn't even have radios.

"Prints," she says.

Tanner frowns. "What?"

"We can take prints from the skin," she replies. "It's a fairly new technique."

"All the rage, now," the Guv says, wiggling his fingers. "So prints from the skin. And you strangled her. Tsk, tsk, tsk," he shakes his head in a disapproving gesture. "Really."

"I…I don't believe you," Tanner says, but his eyes are darting from her to the Guv.

"Confession, Tanner," the Guv says, pushing pen and paper towards him, but Tanner doesn't take them.

And just then, with perfect timing, Ray comes in wearing a big smirk and carrying what looks like a list of names for the next darts knockout. The Guv scowls deeply at him.

"Guv," he says, handing the list to the Guv. "Forensics sent this."

The Guv takes the list from Ray and Annie leans over slightly as if to take a look. "Well, well," the Guv looks up at Tanner, then back at the page in his hand.

"What?" Tanner exclaims, looking rather worried. "_What_?"

The Guv takes the pen and paper and stands up. Next to him, Annie starts collecting her things to follow his example.

"Wait," Tanner calls when they're already at the door. "Where are you goin'? What about the deal?"

The Guv raises his eyebrows at him. "Too late now, Tanner," he says and leaves.

As soon as they're outside the Guv crumples the list Ray's given him and chucks it at him. "The bloody knockout list?!" he exclaims. Annie hides her grin, but Ray doesn't even bother. "Daft tosser," the Guv mumbles darkly.

"You said whatever, Guv," Ray replies with a shrug.

"Shut yer trap and go do something useful for a change, Carling."

"Yes, Guv."

She hears the Guv mutter some insults under his breath, but then he falls silent.

"What about Tanner?" she asks.

He shrugs. "Let him stew for a while," he replies. "He'll confess."

She nods. "Guilty conscience."

"You learn fast, love."

She smiles, accepting the compliment and she turns to leave.

"Cartwright," he calls her. "Good work. Even though: prints from skin? That's pulling stuff out of your arse."

She nods, but she knows as he looks sideways at her, that there were a moment or two in Lost and Found when he turned to her and was expecting someone else entirely to stare back at him.

*

*

*

*

"I've been promoted to steamed vegetables," Sam informs her.

She takes a look at his lunch, and she never thought she'd be glad of having eaten at the CID canteen.

"I'm happy for you," she says, sitting down by his bed.

She watches as Sam pokes at a shapeless, vaguely green piece of something, and she grins at his crinkled nose.

He drops the fork with a sigh and turns to look at her. "So, how was work?"

"We caught a murderer," she replies, and hates the pleased blush that she knows is warming her cheeks. "He confessed."

Sam snorts. "And he's still in one piece?"

She sits up, stung. Sam's always criticizing the Guv's methods, and Annie agrees with him most of the time, but there's never been the note of spite that's now present in his voice, whenever he talks about the Guv. Sarcasm, yes. Malice, never.

"Yes," she says, sharply. "I don't understand why you're being so… _hostile_ towards the Guv."

He narrows his eyes at her. "He represents everything that's wrong with the police these days."

"Sam, you…" she trails off.

"What?"

She shakes her head, weary, this is like starting all over again. "We've already had a conversation like this…_before_," she says.

"There you go, then," he says, shrugging. "I've not changed much, then."

"You used to respect him, though," she retorts.

Sam doesn't reply to that. "Have you called Morgan?" he asks, after a moment.

She looks at him and nods. "Yes," she says, hoping Sam won't remember what she looks like when she's lying.

They spend the next hour in silence, Annie looking out the window, Sam staring absently at the coils of steam raising from his hot lunch, until it cools down completely to a shapeless, greyish mass.

*

*

*

*

On the way to Sam's flat, she stops to buy some cloths and cleaning products in the shop down the street. She knows Sam must have some at his place, but actually having them in her hands, feeling their weight as she goes up the stairs, sort of helps to mentally prepare her.

Now that forensics are long gone and that Sam's still in hospital, his flat will be empty, and even if most of the blood has already been scrubbed away, she knows that the stains take a long time and a lot of work to fade completely.

She climbs the stairs slowly, and when she arrives in front of the door, she just stands there, staring at it as if it were a threshold to things unknown, terrible things.

Unbelievable things.

She takes a deep breath, taking the keys out of her pocket. They're Sam's, she took them when they were going through his flat, through the _crime scene_. The second time in less than a week. She doesn't know why she did it, she just saw them on the table and picked them up.

Inside it's completely dark, and the air is stuffy, stinking of chemicals and strangely enough, smoke. And there's an underlying smell she doesn't want to think about. She supposes it's probably just her impression, because there's no way the coppery smell of blood can survive the bleach they used to clean the floors.

She flicks on the lights and almost cries out in surprise, but can't keep from giving a startled gasp when she sees she's not alone in here.

The Guv takes one last drag from his cigarette, then stubs it into the plate serving as an ashtray at the centre of Sam's table. There're a lot of burned-out butts in there.

"Guv, I-" she blinks. "I didn't expect anybody to be here."

He stretches his arms over his head, several joints pop in the process and Annie wonders how long he's been sitting there. He doesn't get up, though.

"Neither did I," he says after a moment, giving her an inquiring look.

She realizes, then, that she's standing in the middle of the room, the shopping bag clutched to her chest, the door open behind her.

She puts the bag down, turning around to close the door, the keys still jingling in her palm.

"How did you get in?" she asks.

The Guv dips a hand into his coat pocket and comes out with a key ring. There're a lot of keys, to his house, she guesses, to the car, to his file cabinet in the office. Then she spots two very familiar keys amongst the others. Keys to Sam's door.

"He said he was getting tired of me breaking down his door," he says, and puts them away. His eyes travel to the bags by her feet. "What've you got there?"

"Ajax," she replies, nodding at the floor, where just a few days ago a dark stain had spread.

"'S clean," he says.

"It's never clean enough," she retorts, shaking her head. The Guv snorts. "I just want Sam to come back to a clean place."

Where he doesn't have to look down and think 'that was me'.

"Sam," the Guv repeats, thoughtfully. "Sam. I don't think we're gonna see him for a very long time," he says. "Thirty years. Give or take."

Annie gives him a long look. "You don't really believe that, Guv, do you?"

He rubs his face and finally gets up. "I don't know. You tell me, Cartwright," he says. "Never could figure Tyler out. Never will, I reckon." He stands up, smoothing down his clothes, and to Annie he's never looked this tired.

"You can stay, Guv," she says. "If you want."

He shakes his head. "The Missus is waiting."

"Guv!" she calls, when he's already at the door. "You should come and visit Sam at the hospital, sometime."

He hesitates, his back to her, and then he snorts. "No," he says. "As far as I'm concerned, Sam died on that floor."

"Guv," she whispers, and she can feel her eyes welling up with tears. "What has he done that's so terrible you can't forgive him?"

The Guv whirls sharply on her, his eyes bright with fury and something else she can't quite decipher. "Why don't you mind your own business!" he snarls right into her face. "Bloody nosy bird!" he growls, and with that he leaves, slamming the door behind him, making the whole frame shake under the force.

Annie stumbles back, stunned into silence by the sudden display of fury. After a moment she blinks away the tears and goes to open the windows to freshen the room.

Now that the room is bathed in the late afternoon light, she can see the darker colour of the boards. She remembers the night, when they were going over the crime scene, DI Parkman's empty, lifeless eyes staring up at them, his and Sam's blood mixed in a coagulated pool spreading under his body.

She remembers the long hours spent waiting to see if Sam would survive the loss of blood, the surgery. And later, waiting by his bed, waiting for him to wake up.

She remembers the Guv's silent presence on the chair drawn up by the bed, feet propped up on the mattress, his eyes never leaving Sam's face for more than a minute. The first time Annie's ever seen the Guv so still and silent for such a long time.

Her gaze goes to the cigarette butts in the ashtray, and there's a bottle of Scotch by the sink, the Guv's usual brand. She recalls what Sam's neighbour, Mrs. Finley, has said, about the Guv swinging by more than a few times, she recalls the two keys swinging by his key ring, and clinking against all the other keys to all the things in the Guv's life. Important things.

She's seen the way the Guv walks around now, his movements responding to a presence that isn't there any more. She's seen the way he turns to look at his acting DI, the almost confused expression on his face as if he's surprised to find Ray by his side.

And maybe she isn't alone in struggling so much, trying to cope with Sam's unrecognizing eyes, but apparently she is the only one that doesn't believe that Sam, _their_ Sam, is gone. Never to come back.

*

*

*

*

Annie turns the keys in the lock and pushes, stepping aside to let Sam in. He limps slightly, the pain his not yet healed wound is still giving him is evident in his face.

"So this is it, then?" he asks, looking around the room. "You didn't tell me I used to live in a bloody matchbox, love."

She smiles. "Yeah, the-" other Sam "-you have never quite liked it."

He eyes the small bed dubiously, then attempts sitting on it, gingerly, but hasn't expected it to give away so easily under his weight, because he almost falls over, yelping. His hands go to his injury, his face pale and tight with pain.

"Bloody hell," he grinds out, hissing.

"You all right?" she asks, dropping the groceries on the table and reaching his side.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, waving her away. "Was only a twinge."

Her gaze lingers on him for a few moments more, but then she nods, and gets up to go and sort the groceries. "So, what are you planning to cook, Sam?" she asks, smiling.

He frowns and looks at her. "Cook?" he repeats. "You bought all that stuff, I thought _you_ were gonna cook."

She laughs softly and shakes her head, "I'm afraid I can barely boil water," she says. "You're a mean cook, though."

He stands up, gingerly. "Oh, I am?" he snorts, as he limps to the stove. He starts banging open and close the cupboards. "Rice?" he suddenly exclaims, rather stunned, then he takes a small jar and frowns at it. "_Coriander_? What the hell is that?"

She stares at him, and for a moment she wonders if she's really looking at another man altogether.

No.

Sam is the same Sam, he's just gone through two near-death experiences in a very short time. This is just the effect of trauma and stress, he's just forgotten who he is, and now… Now he needs some time and he'll be back to his old self. But so many things have changed about him, his behaviour only the most obvious one, the way he walks, the way he dresses, the way he keeps his hair. He's started growing a moustache. His hand-writing has changed, his taste in music.

And Annie is left trying to find a familiar gesture of the man she knew – even if just a glimpse – underneath a pattern of movements and words that belongs to a total stranger.

She shakes herself, and makes sure she's got a kind smile before she starts. "I'm sure we can come up with something, between the two of us."

*

*

*

*

"Now," she says, before entering. "Remember what the doctors said."

He rolls his eyes and snorts. "No booze."

Annie nods, satisfied that he's remembered. "That's right."

"Then why have you brought me 'ere?" he asks, nodding at the sign of The Railway Arms. "You wanna torture me? You cruel, cruel woman."

She laughs softly and shakes her head. "No, Sam," she says. "We come here after work, I was hoping it would-"

"Jog me memory, yeah," he nods with a sigh, and for a moment Annie doesn't think this is such a good idea any more. She's about to suggest they go away, when Sam turns to her, smirking. "You come 'ere often, then?" he shakes his head disapprovingly. "A respectable bird like you."

She giggles. "Oh, I believe you don't know me enough to be able to say that, DI Ty- Williams."

He doesn't seem to have noticed her slip and nods to the door. "Shall we go in, then?"

"All right."

The moment they step inside all the conversations stop and every set of eyes in the pub is fixed on them. She fidgets and smiles unconvincingly in greeting at Chris and Ray. Beside her, Sam stiffens.

"Uh, I don't think this was such a good idea," he whispers, leaning slightly towards her.

"Ah, Sam!" Nelson exclaims, from behind the bar. "And lovely Annie, of course. What can I get you?"

And like magic all the tension is broken, everybody going back to their drinks, their conversations, their game of darts. She smiles at Nelson in gratitude and sits down, the coat folded two stools away from her doesn't go unnoticed and she looks around for the Guv, but he's nowhere to be found.

Sam blinks at Nelson, perplexed. "I don't know how I can possibly have forgotten you."

Nelson laughs softly. "I'll take that as a compliment, mon brav, shall I?" he says. "Pint and a chaser?"

Annie lays a hand on Sam's arm, preventing him from saying anything that would break their pact about drinks. "He's still recovering," she says. "So make it something with no alcohol in it."

Nelson frowns, thoughtfully. "I don't if I actually have anything like that, here," he replies, with a grin.

"I trust your endless resources," she says, confidently.

Nelson laughs again and winks at her, before leaving to get their drinks.

Sam sits down at her left, and maybe he hasn't noticed the coat, but she wishes he wouldn't have. The Guv is intractable enough as it is, he doesn't need Sam's presence rubbed into his face. She can't say that, though, can she? What excuse would she use? 'Sorry Sam, you shouldn't sit next to the Guv because he thinks you're dead.'

"He seems like a nice bloke," Sam says, following Nelson with his eyes.

"Nelson? He is," she replies, nodding.

"What's with the way he speaks, though?" he frowns. "Can't figure his accent."

There's a grunt from two stools down, and they turn to look as the Guv makes his way back from the loo and stumbles to the bar, climbing on his stool. He gives them a scowling glance, then takes his empty glass and taps it on the bar. "There's a drought, 'ere, you crazy Jamaican!" he bellows, and Nelson appears in front of him as if by magic, refilling the tumbler with Scotch.

"There you go, Mr. Hunt," he says, the Guv grunts in response.

Sam gives a disgusted snort and turns away from him, to look at Annie. "Bloody useless."

She frowns at him. "You shouldn't talk like that of the Guv."

"Why not?" he says, with a shrug. "He is."

"Sam-" she starts, but Nelson arrives once again with perfect timing to save the situation.

"There you go, Sam," he says, putting a glass in front of him. He leans forward. "Ginger ale," he whispers conspiratorially. "Don't let this out, or I'll lose my rep."

She smiles and nods in reassurance. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with us."

Sam sips carefully at his drink, and even though he may regret the fact that it isn't alcoholic enough for his tastes, he seems to be satisfied enough. "Annie," he says after a moment.

"Yes?"

"You told me you handled all me stuff, from the hospital, you know," he says, staring down at his glass, then he turns to look at her. "I was wondering…Did you find a medal? I had a St. Christopher medal, and I can't find it any more."

"I remember it," she says, nodding thoughtfully, then she shakes her head. "Can't say I found it," she replies. "I'm sorry."

"Me mum gave me that medal," he says. "Before she died."

Annie frowns, the way he's talked about her, she's always thought she'd be still alive. Or maybe Sam has forgotten about his crazy convictions about being from the future. Every cloud has a silver lining, after all. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" she starts. "Actually, I haven't seen you wearing your medal for a while, now."

"Are you sure?" he frowns. "Think about it Annie, it's really-"

But he never gets to finish his sentence, from behind the Guv comes and punches him hard, making his head snap back, and he falls from the stool.

"You soddin' bastard!" the Guv screams, his eyes wild, his teeth clenched in fury.

"Guv!" she exclaims, getting up and hurrying to Sam's side to help him up.

"Hunt!" Sam growls, using her arm as a support to stand up. And Annie tries to keep him back, to prevent more of this madness, but he easily frees himself and flings himself at the Guv, hitting him in the face, in the stomach.

"Sam!" she cries out, and in a moment Chris and Ray are by her side, separating the two of them.

Sam stumbles back, wiping the blood away from his mouth and shooting a look full of contempt and disgust at the Guv, who's now leaning against the bar, Ray supporting him by his arm. "Bloody useless thug," he snarls, glaring at him.

And this time is the Guv who has to restrain Ray from launching himself at Sam. "Get outta me pub, Williams," the Guv hisses. "And don't you ever come back."

"Just as well," Sam snorts and turns to leave. "You coming, love?" he asks her.

Annie remains standing there, not knowing what to do, but apparently Sam hasn't been expecting an answer anyway, because he just storms out of The Railway Arms, leaving her to stare helplessly at his back.

"He's got you properly trained, don't he Cartwright?" the Guv snorts. "Mark me words, love, you're gonna get hurt by the likes of 'im."

She frowns at him. "I think that's my decision to make, Guv," she says sharply.

"You're wastin' your time," he goes on, and now he's back on his stool, blood spattered across the side of his mouth, hunched over his drink, and Annie has never seen him so crumpled and broken. "He's gone, you know. He's just… _gone_."

*

*

*

*

When they reach his block of flats Sam turns around and speaks for the first time since what happened in The Railway Arms. "Here we are," he says, then bows his head slightly. "Thank you for escorting me home, kind lady."

She smiles. "The streets aren't safe, at this hour," she says. "But thankfully you have a officer of the law with you."

"How will I ever repay you?"

'By being yourself again', she wants to tell him. "No need, it's my job."

He nods, but becomes serious. "You've really been helping me, Annie," he says. "A lot."

She ducks her head, smiling shyly. "You're my friend, Sam," she says, softly. "Of course I'll help you."

"You seem to be the only one I've got left, then," he replies, rather harshly. "Not like that lot down at the pub."

She sighs. "I've told you, Sam," she says. "It's just… _difficult_ for them."

"Yeah," he nods, staring right into her eyes. "Because I remind them so much of this Tyler bloke." Annie blinks and looks sideways, averting his gaze. "Who is he anyway?"

"I- I don't want to talk about it."

He snorts. "Of course you don't."

She coughs lightly. "I should go," she says and turns, but Sam's fingers closing around her wrist stop her. It's not that the grip is tight, quite the contrary in fact. And it's the gentleness of it that actually freezes her steps.

"Would you like to come up?" he asks, softly. "I know me flat is not much to look at, but…"

"Sam…" she starts, because if The Railway Arms hasn't been a good idea, this is a monumentally wrong one. "I don't think…"

"_Please_, Annie."

She takes a deep breath, and despite herself, she nods.

She expected Sam to kiss her there in the street, or as soon as they've got inside, but he just tells her to make herself at home and goes off to find something for them to drink. She frowns when he turns around, brandishing a bottle of wine.

He sighs. "I was hoping you'd forgotten," he admits, putting the wine away. "I would offer tea, but I don't have any," he shows her a jar. "Only coffee, apparently."

"Water is fine," she says.

"There you go," he says, placing a glass of water in front of her. "Not very fancy, but refreshing."

She smiles and takes a sip. "Oh," she exclaims in wonder. "This is an excellent vintage!"

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, mock the poor sod who can't have booze for the rest of his life."

"Now you're just exaggerating," she says. "It's only until you've fully recovered."

"Feels like it though."

She nods and looks away, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. What is she doing? Sam is confused enough as it is, she shouldn't be here, complicating the matter further. She stands up, causing him to look up at her in surprise.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"Home," she says. "It's late and I-" she clears her voice. "This isn't a good idea, Sam."

"Stay," he says. "We'll just talk if you want. I just- I don't want to be alone, right now," he continues quietly, and his eyes are pleading with her.

And Sam's so expressive, and in some way so open when it comes to communicate something. But at the same time his eyes are closed, guarded, as if hiding an entire world he doesn't want to show behind them. And she supposes they do, a world of future wonders, a world that's so much better than the one they're living in right now, or so he says. And sometimes Sam is so far away from everybody else around him, an abyss separating them, that she can almost believe he's from a different planet. Now more than ever.

She sighs and sits down again, taking a sip of water to give herself some time to think. "What do you want to talk about?"

He shrugs. "I don't know," he says. "Work?"

Annie rolls her eyes. "That part of you hasn't changed."

"What part?"

She grins. "The part where you're obsessed with your job."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Of course not," she shakes her head. "But you should learn to let go once in a while."

"Well, that's the whole point of you being here," he replies.

"_Sam_."

"All right, all right," he exclaims, raising his hands in defeat.

She smiles, the rim of the glass resting against her lips as she thinks about it. "Work is the usual," she says. "We catch criminals."

"Are you good at it?" he asks, and at her frown, "hey, amnesia, remember?"

"Yes, Sam," she replies. "We're very good at it. Even without you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, well," she says. "You're always proposing new methods, from _Hyde_."

"Really?" he asks, and he sounds actually surprised. "What kind of methods?"

"Blood pattern analysis, for one. Psychological profiling," she replies. "Other stuff. You always insist that evidence makes a case, not gut feeling."

"Right," he seems to think about it. "And what's Hunt's take on that? Doesn't strike me as a bloke that would stand for that."

"Well, he didn't at first," she admits. "But he's willing to compromise, sometimes."

"Sometimes?" he asks, incredulously.

She doesn't like his tone whenever he speaks of the Guv, now. It's as if all the respect he's had for him has been overbalanced and overwhelmed by the aversion he has for his methods. "It's your fault as well as his, Sam," she says, sharply.

"What?" he exclaims. "The man is a thug and the fault is _mine_?"

"Sam!"

"What? You saw what he did, didn't you!" he says, slamming his palm on the table. "He punched me in the face for no other reason that he's a violent bastard!"

"I'm sure he didn't mean that-"

"Oh, _now_ I'm relieved!"

"He was drunk, Sam!" she retorts. "Surely you've been drunk and done something stupid, as well."

"That's no excuse, Annie," he says, in a low voice. "I have it on good authority that he always drinks, even when he's working! And don't pretend he's never been violent when sober."

"Sam, I don't know what you want me to say, but-"

"Admit it," he says.

"Sam-"

"Admit that Gene Hunt is a drunken, violent bastard," he says, angrily.

"It's not like that, Sam, and you know it."

"No. Actually, I don't," he retorts, and his eyes aren't pleading any more, they're clear and purposeful.

She wants to get out of here. She stands up, collecting her coat.

"Annie."

She shakes her head, "I can't Sam, I'm sorry."

"Why?" he asks. "I can understand that you respect him, but he's not perfect, why can't you admit it?"

He's right, Annie knows that, the Guv is far from perfect, but his actions have always been in consequence to the world around them. To catch criminals, they need to be shoulder to shoulder with them, to mingle with their lot, so that ordinary people don't have to, so that they can protect them.

"Sometimes you just have to do what it needs to be done," she says.

"No, Annie," Sam replies, shaking his head. "You don't. Otherwise what's the difference between us and the criminals we put away? Just a piece of metal?"

And in some way he's right, but Annie knows the Guv, or at least she's known him longer than Sam, and there are lines he won't cross. He demonstrated that when Ray gave cocaine to Billy Kemble, when he arrested Superintendent Woolf.

"I don't want you to…'deny' him, Annie," Sam says, gently. "I just want you to admit that he's not perfect, to acknowledge it. So we can start from there."

She sighs. "Sam…"

"Say it."

"Sometimes-" she stops, and tries again. This is one of the most difficult things she's had to say in her life. "Sometimes DCI Hunt, the Guv, employs excessive force with suspects."

"You mean he beats them."

"_Yes_," she replies, shooting him a glare. "He _beats_ them. Happy now?"

He smiles widely, and goes to her, opening his arms and enclosing her in an embrace. But when he tries to kiss her, she turns her head sideways.

"What is it?" he asks, softly.

"Not now," she replies, kissing him on the cheek and taking a step back. "It's late, I'm going home."

He gives her a long look, but then he nods. "Fair enough," he says. "I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks more than says.

"Yes," she replies. "I'll come over after work."

He watches from the threshold as she descends the stairs. When she's finally out where he can't see her any more, she stops and leans back against the hard bricks of the wall, closing her eyes and trying to catch her breath. This is going too fast, she hasn't got the time to stop and think clearly. And she's so _angry_ right now, but she hasn't quite well figured at _whom_, yet.

At Sam, for making her doubt the Guv, the things she's always believed in, taken for granted.

At herself, for letting Sam do that.

But mostly, because she's making Sam the focus of the blame, when his objections actually have a point.

And she still can't understand his total, seemingly blind aversion to the Guv.

She loves Sam, but right now she's afraid of him.

*

*

*

*

Annie's desk is right behind Sam's, and every time she raises her eyes she sees that he is not there. There are several piles of folders and reports scattered on the desk, and even on the chair, but they've been left there temporarily by somebody who didn't have the space and needed some.

The desk had been cleared of Sam's personal things when he packed for the transfer back to Hyde. And then it was DI Parkman's turn, but he didn't last long, and Sam hasn't had the time to put everything back into place.

She wonders where the box has gone to, the one Sam put all of his personal property in from the desk and from his locker. Maybe it's in his flat.

She remembers walking in on him as he was filling the box, in the locker room. There wasn't much inside, no photos for starters, and she remembers finding that odd, but of course now she knows why. Sam Tyler has no family, because he's just a cover behind which Sam Williams has been hiding. But Sam would never betray them , would he? Since day one, he's been struggling to make them better, he made her a detective. What would be the use in throwing everything away now?

"How's the Boss?" Chris asks, startling her from her thoughts.

"What?" she says, blinking and turning to look up at him.

"How's the Boss?" Chris repeats.

"If you're so worried about him," she replies, rather harshly, "why don't you go and visit him? He's at home, now."

Chris looks down at his shoes guiltily, and she instantly regrets having snapped at him. "Um," he says. "I went to see him when he was still at the hospital. I even brought him a card," he cheers up slightly at the memory, but his smile falls after a moment. "He had them weird eyes when he looked at me, though," he says. "I don't think thinks he likes me much, now."

She shakes her head. "I'm sure that's not true, Chris," she says, trying to reassure him, but she's not that certain herself, and Sam actually seems to dislike quite a lot of people. Except her, of course. "He's just…_confused_ at the moment," she frowns as she tries to explain. "It's like he's gone back to before he met us. It's not that he doesn't like you, he just doesn't remember that he does."

"Gone back," Chris nods, thoughtfully. "Like the first day. Blimey, he really was acting quee- _weird_."

"Yes, something like that, Chris."

"So the Boss has finally gone cuckoo, then," Ray snorts, parking his bum on her desk.

She scowls at him. "Sam's not crazy," she says. "He's just recovering from a lot of stress."

"He's a bloody sissy," he sneers. "I almost got blown up. Didn't lost me memories, did I?"

But Annie remembers Ray's face, when she arrived at Sam's place, just a minute after the ambulance, she had been on her way there, anyway, to relieve the Guv and give both of them some breathing space, God knows they probably were going bonkers, stuffed in Sam's minuscule flat. There was just so much blood, and DI Parkman's body, and Sam looked dead. And she knows Ray must have thought that, because he had looked completely gobsmacked when the ambulance men told him to please let him go, that he was still alive.

"Maybe he just wanted to forget your ugly mug, Ray," Chris says, with a grin.

"Then why has he forgotten you as well, Einstein?" Ray retorts.

"I don't know," Chris replies, his eyes shining with good humour. "Maybe you've just got a _really_ ugly mug."

Annie giggles a bit at that, but Ray scowls deeply at both of them and leaves.

"You think he's upset?" Chris turns to her, his tone vaguely worried.

"No, Ray's just a bit touchy," she replies with a smile.

Chris laughs, then he gives her a look. "Will you tell the Boss that I say 'hi'?"

She nods. "Of course."

He fidgets. "And would you ask him if I can go and visit him, sometime?" he continues. "So that he'll remember he likes me?"

"He'll be pleased, I'm sure," she says, and she's about to add something else, when the doors burst open, and in comes the Guv, sporting a deep frown on his face and a general dishevelled air that speaks of a hangover.

"Well!" he bellows to the room at large. "What the hell's goin' on here? You think you're at a soddin' tea party? Stop dickin' around and get some work done, you bunch of bloody sissies!"

He shoots a glance at Sam's desk before storming to his office and barricading himself inside.

"I wonder," she murmurs, and Chris turns to look at her questioningly. She shakes her head. "No, it's nothing. I just wonder what happened between Sam and the Guv to make him act so angry towards him."

Beside her, Chris starts sputtering and almost trips over his own feet from his standing position. "W-What?" he manages to choke out, at last.

She frowns at him. "Chris, is there something you want to tell me?"

"No!" he exclaims, and when he notices he's said that too loudly, he lowers his voice. "No."

She narrows her eyes at him. Chris certainly isn't the most impenetrable person in the world, and he's hiding something, he _knows_ something. "Chris, the Guv is acting as if Sam wronged him by losing his memories. But it's not Sam's fault!" she exclaims. "So if you know anything that could help the situation…"

Chris shakes his head, his eyes wide and terrified. "I don't know nowt," he says. "And even if I did, I promised I wouldn't tell."

"Chris!" she hisses.

"I can't!" he says, and he really is afraid. "I wish I could, because it's- but it's not me secret to tell!"

She can see that he's really troubled, and in the end she gives up, not wanting him to perjure himself. "It's all right, Chris," she says. "Just tell me, could that have to do something with the Guv being angry at Sam?"

Chris frowns. "I wouldn't know. I don't think so," he shrugs. "Maybe he's angry because Sam's forgotten him."

Annie shakes her head. "The Guv's the only one he didn't forget."

He just despises him now.

*

*

*

*

Sam kisses her mouth again, nibbling softly on her lower lip, and his hands go to cup her breasts. She knows she should stop him, stop him and leave, because this isn't a good idea at all, Sam's still confused, she's still confused. Everybody's confused and she doesn't know where she stands.

But she's only made of flesh and blood, after all, and her fingers are lost in Sam's short hair, and she's tilting her head to give him better access for the kiss. He moans against her mouth and his hands go around her, stroking up and down her back, as he starts to walk her backward towards the bed.

"So much for dinner," she chuckles breathlessly against his lips when they come apart. Their dinner is cooling on the table, waiting for them. Annie has a suspicion they'll stay hungry for the time being, though, at least as far as food is concerned.

"Not worth it, anyway," he says, smiling down at her. "I'd rather do this."

"Me too," she replies, and starts unbuttoning Sam's shirt to push it off his shoulders.

He frees his arms from the sleeves, and as she's still working on getting the shirt completely off, he starts working on her blouse, sneaking his hands inside when he's created an opening big enough. He caresses her stomach, then travels back, working on the clasp of her bra.

When a thumb strokes her nipple she gasps loudly, and starts kissing him more urgently, tugging and pulling at the belt of his trousers. She can feel him hardening even more against her thigh. "I think we should- the bed-"

"Yes," he says, and they fall back on the mattress, the bed protesting loudly.

He levers himself up on his elbows, not to crush her, and she takes advantage of the small space between them, to sneak her hand down his stomach, fingers trailing along the smooth, sparsely haired skin, to reach the cotton of his pants.

"_Annie_," he whispers, above her, and his eyes are wide and burning.

She raises her head to capture his lips and sneaks her hand inside, taking hold of him, stroking him, the wiry pubic hair tickling against her fingers. Sam tilts his head backwards and starts moving against her hand, and she closes her fingers tighter, feeling him grow even harder.

Above her Sam is coming apart, gasping loudly, his lips muttering obscene words, and then he lowers himself on her, his face plastered against her neck, panting and licking and nibbling. And now her arm is trapped between their sweaty bodies, but she doesn't stop the up and down motions of her hand, until Sam tenses and curses louder, and hot come fills her hands.

Neither of them moves for a long time, her hand still petting him, Sam breathing shakily against her neck. Then he draws himself up and kisses her.

"Bloody hell, woman," he says, almost in wonder.

She grins at him. "I'll take that as a compliment."

He chuckles and lightly kisses her again, then he shifts and grimaces. "Sticky," he says, disgusted, and Annie laughs out loud at that. "What do you say we try this again, without our clothes on?"

"I'd say that's a good idea," she grins at him. "Let's just hope you'll last longer this time."

He frowns at her. "You doubting me manliness, Miss. Cartwright?" he exclaims, mock-affronted.

"Well, you left me behind," she replies, still grinning.

"Oh, I'll show you, you heartless woman!" he exclaims, diving down and slowly licking his way up from her navel to her sternum.

She gasps. "You missed the important bits," she says, but Sam looks up at her and makes a deviation towards her right breast, his tongue idly circling her nipple, before engulfing it completely.

Annie can hardly believe she thought this could be a bad idea.

*

*

*

*

Annie opens the door with the keys the Guv gave her. 'Don't need them any more', he said, and tossed them on her desk. She wonders if he already knows what's going on between her and Sam. He surely suspects something, anyhow.

Inside, Sam's flat is silent, except for the sound of running water coming from the bathroom.

Sam is in the shower, and Annie fidgets.

She can't seem to decide if what they did last night has been a smart move, Sam is still recovering, after all, and not only from the wound in his side. But it's been- well, not perfect, but very good, indeed. Annie Cartwright has finally be able to get her man.

She grins and gives a small giggle.

Sam is taking a very long time in the shower, she wonders if he would object much to her joining him. The thought brings images of a naked Sam with water all running down on him to her mind. Her grin widens, but his shower probably isn't big enough for what she has in mind.

No harm in asking, though.

She takes off her jacket and throws it on the bed, and is about to start on her blouse, when she sees the pages scattered on the table, next to the tape recorder. She frowns and stoops to examine it, and she shouldn't because it's surely something private.

In the end she's glad she does, though. She sits down hard, on one of the chair, staring wide-eyed at the words carefully written on the page, her mind blank. Almost on its own accord, her index finger goes to the tape recorder and presses play. Her own voice, and Sam' s, come out.

_"Sometimes DCI Hunt, the Guv, employs excessive force with suspects."_

"You mean he beats them."

"Yes . He beats them. Happy now?"

She stops the tape, suddenly, but the written words still haunt her, continuing the dialogue. And Sam has- She can't even bring herself to think about, tears of shame and rage making her vision blurry, a strange, almost startled sound making its way from her chest out of her mouth.

"What are you doing here?" Sam asks, and she jumps, not having heard the water closing, him entering the room.

She turns to look at him; he's still wet from the shower, with a small towel wrapped around his hips, but he's not the man she's had sex last night, he doesn't hold any appeal any more. He's just a despicable, miserable bastard who's tricked her and who's betrayed her.

"What is this, Sam?" she says, in a low voice. "Tell me this isn't what I think it is."

Sam gives her a long look, then comes to the table to gather the pages and the recorder, he doesn't look at her. "You shouldn't have come here, uninvited."

"I'm starting to think that, as well," she snorts. "So last night, what was it? Just trying to get dirt on the Guv, and you decided to have a bit on the side while you were at it?" and she wants him to deny that, to scream, to cry that it's not true, that he genuinely likes her, that he won't betray them, not now that he's got a chance with Annie.

He only stares at her, though, and his silence is very telling.

"You lying bastard!" she cries, slapping him with such force that he stumbles sideways.

She darts past him, retrieving her jacket from the bed and hastily putting it on.

His hand on her wrist stops her. "I wasn't the only one, though," he says, tugging and pulling her towards him.

"Let me go!" she exclaims, pushing at his chest, but he grips tighter on her wrist.

"Oh, you were all very careful around me," he snorts, sneering down at her. "And at first I believed it, I believed _you_."

"What are you talking about?" she frowns.

"After all, I could do nothing but trust you," he continues. "It was obvious I had lost week or two, and I didn't know where I stood with you lot."

Annie's still frozen in his embrace, not really sure where this is going.

"And then it became clear that I had lost _months_," he hisses into her face. "Bloody _months_!"

"Sam, I didn't want to upset you, I-"

"And there you stand, next to me, smiling and being a nice little bird!" he yells. "But you aren't, aren't you? You just look at me and see somebody else, don't you?!"

And frankly, Annie is worried now, and even slightly afraid, because Sam is getting more and more angry, and the grip on her wrist is turning painful. "Sam!" she exclaims. "You're hurting me!"

"It's bloody Tyler, innit?" he exclaims. "You said I just reminded you lot of him, but that's not that, is it? I was Tyler!"

"Sam-"

"And I thought it was just a coincidence, that I couldn't have lost me mind like that. Turns out I was wrong."

"You haven't lost your mind, Sam," she says for what feels like the hundredth time, but she's not that sure she believes it any more. "And yes, maybe I should have told you everything, but I was afraid-" she stops, suddenly noticing what she's doing.

This man has betrayed her, she's got the proof, this man has taken advantage of her feelings and used them for his purposes. This man deserves no forgiveness.

She takes a deep breath, schooling her features into an impassive façade, and tries to take a step back. When he doesn't let go, though, she shoots a glance at him. "Let me go. _Now_."

"No," he says. "Love."

In an abrupt move, she brings her knee up, against his crotch, and with a breathless cry he folds in half, finally letting her go. "Soddin' hell," he grits out. "Bloody crazy bird!"

The towel has come undone and he's completely naked and Annie can't think that she's trailed her hands over that skin, kissed that mouth, and has been in turn touched and kissed by the man who's now curled on the ground, cursing profusely at her.

"Think you're so high and mighty," he says. "But there's plenty like you to choose from out there on the streets, you know?" he sneers. "I wondered why, in all those months I didn't even try to hump you, love, but the answer's clear enough, innit? I really don't like cheap slappers, makes me feel unappreciated."

She gapes at him, and in a move that startles her more than Sam, she drives a powerful kick into his stomach. His laughter is cut off, as he starts choking for air.

"You learned that from Hunt as well, did ya?" he snorts, then he draws himself up on his elbows, and for a moment, staring up at her, he really looks sorry. "I _trusted_ you, Annie. I thought I could convince you that what Hunt is doin' is wrong. But you were never on my side, were you? And you call me a traitor, but you've always been working for your Guv, trying to see what I knew, what I remembered."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says. "And I won't take any more of this. Sir."

"You see, we agree at least on one thing," he says. "For me to have forgotten so much, something really nasty must have happened. I wonder what," he snorts. "And then Hunt is treating me as if I've killed his best mate, you say I really, really look like your Tyler, and when I ask you to call me DCI in Hyde, you smile and say yes. Of course I trusted you. I'm a bloody fool, that's what I am. You never called him, did you?"

She doesn't say anything.

"Morgan told me everything, Annie," he says. "He told me about the accident, the amnesia, everything."

Annie stares at him, and she wonders how a naked man, sitting on the floor, a man who's just taken not only one, but two kicks from her, a man that should be at his most vulnerable by now, she wonders how can he hold such power over her, how is he able to make her feel like the filth on his shoes; like a cheap slapper, as he said.

"Tyler was my undercover identity," he says, then. "Until it was blown. But you already knew that, of course."

She shakes her head. "No," she says. "It's you, I mean, you-"

"No!" he yells, and the sudden outburst startles her. "My name is Sam Williams! _Williams_! Sam bloody Tyler doesn't exist! He's just some imaginary bloke me mind came up with when I had no memories of who I was!"

"No, Sam, please-" she pleads.

"He's not real!"

And they've had this conversation before, haven't they?

The only difference is that now she really wishes she could walk out that door and make everything disappear.

"He's not real!" he yells again, but she already running down the stairs, and the voice is faint to her ears.

"Are you all right, love?" an old lady asks her, when she's down the street.

Only then she realizes she's been crying.

*

*

*

*

She knocks quietly on the door, and enters without waiting for a reply.

The Guv doesn't even look up. "What is it, Cartwright?"

She doesn't reply, and just sits down at the desk, her eyes fixed on the folder opened in front of the Guv.

"_What_?" he barks again, this time raising his head to look at her. What he sees must have really worried him, though, because he asks, "Annie?" in a voice that she's never heard him use before.

"Guv, I…" she tries, but swallows when she realizes she's about to cry again. She mustn't, she's spent the whole morning steadying herself for this, she can't break down when she hasn't even started yet. She's not a weak little girl, she's a policewoman, and what she's done is stupid, and she'll pay the consequences like an adult. "Sam-"

The Guv shoots up abruptly, and she looks up at him, startled. "What did the bastard do?!" he exclaims, and his whole face is contorted in a furious snarl. "So help me, if he's even dared-" he punches the filing cabinet, making it sway dangerously. "I'll break both his bloody arms and I'll bounce the bastard from the walls, if he thinks he can-"

"Guv!" she exclaims. "It's not like that!"

He freezes suddenly, and seems to calm down considerably, and normally Annie would be immensely pleased by the fact that he obviously cares about her, about her well-being, but not right now. Right now, she has to tell him- she has to tell him that she's betrayed him, that she's going to be the cause of his fall.

He sits down, his hands joined on the table, his eyes carefully studying her. "What is it then, love?" he asks after a moment. "You look like somebody died."

"I- I thought he was just-" she shakes her head. "I thought he was still- _himself_."

The Guv stays silent, then he sighs and drops his head, one of his hands going to scratch the back of his neck in a gesture that suddenly reminds her of Sam. She lowers her eyes.

"I compromised myself, Sir," she says.

The Guv snorts. "It had to happen sooner or later," he says. "You've been sniffing around each other for a while, now, love."

"No, Guv, it's-"

"Congratulations," he growls. "You're gonna have lots of beautiful, picky babies and spend your holidays in Brighton."

"This is serious, Guv!" she exclaims.

"So am I, Cartwright!" he retorts.

And now she isn't hesitant any more, she's just _furious_. "He took advantage of my feelings, Sir!" she exclaims. "Of my relationship with him!"

"So, he's a bastard," he raises his chin at her. "I warned you, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did," she nods. "But I didn't-" she stops, and takes a deep breath. "He recorded some of the things I said when we were alone."

"He's kinky, as well, then," he sneers. "But we both knew that already, didn't we?"

"No, not- Compromising things, Guv, about _you_," she says, looking straight at him, because he deserves that. "About your… questioning techniques with some of the suspects."

The Guv gives her a long look, then he sniffs and nods. "I see," he says, calmly.

"You're not going to say anything, Guv?" she asks softly.

"Nothing to say," he replies, shrugging. "Hope you had your fun, love, because everything will end soon enough."

"But Guv, we have to do something..." she trails off, and his face is enough of answer. "Maybe I could- I've still got the keys to his flat, maybe-"

"_No_," he says. "You remember Parkman, right? I'm not like that bloody Morgan from _Hyde_," he snorts, his voice full of contempt. "I won't put me officers in danger, or whore them out for my purposes."

"But Guv," she tries again, almost desperately. "There must be some way!"

The Guv levels her with a long stare. "No, there isn't," he says, and it sounds definitive.

And Annie thinks of the words he said the other night. '_He's gone_'. The way he said them, and for the first time she's as sure as him. Because Sam, their Sam, is gone. There's nothing left of him in the man that's going to bring them all down, that's going to betray them. And if on one hand that's a relief – Sam would never do something like that – on the other it's so utterly devastating. Because it means Sam isn't real, has never been. It means he only existed in their minds.

*

*

*

*

The rest of the week is just a long, agonisingly wait, hanging over their heads like Damocles' sword. Annie finds herself looking up at the doors every few minutes, expecting Sam to come in, followed by DCI Morgan, accomplished smiles on their face, the papers that will decree their end in his hand.

Everybody in CID is acting like her, even Phyllis who's one of the strongest people she knows seems to be unnaturally subdued. The Guv's the only one whose behaviour hasn't changed, but he's been that way ever since Sam woke up, and she wonders how he's always known, from the start, and she never did until now.

"Here love," Phyllis says, handing her a cup of tea.

"Thanks," she gives her a somewhat shaky smile.

They drink their tea in silence for a while, then Annie puts her down on the table, and looks up.

Around them the canteen is empty.

"I've ruined everything, haven't I?" she says, softly.

"Now, love, don't be daft," Phyllis clicks her tongue. "He was an outright bastard, tricking a nice bird like you, who cared for him-"

"Well, that's exactly the problem, isn't it?" she exclaims. "I shouldn't be a 'nice bird'! I should just be WDC Cartwright!"

And Annie can't believe that she has been the one to ruin everything. A million things could have gone wrong; the Guv losing his patience in Lost and Found, Ray being too sloppy during an investigation, Chris tampering with the evidence. And she's the one, in the end, the weak link, just because she has 'soft feelings' for Sam. And maybe they're right, maybe CID isn't a place for somebody like her, for a _bird_.

"You should have seen him, Phyllis!" she goes on. "The Guv was just- he's just _given up_. And it's all my fault."

"Annie…" Phyllis reaches a hand across and squeezes her wrist gently. "It's not your fault."

She pushes the cup away from her, and she abruptly stands up. "I need some air."

It's well after office hours and the corridor to CID is empty and dimly light. Everybody's left, and the silence as her steps echo against the walls is almost eerie. She just needs to get out of here, she's been feeling almost claustrophobic lately, the tension accumulating and dulling every sensation, every colour, making everything grey and insipid.

In front of her the double doors leading to the main office space swing forward, and a well- known shape steps forwards.

"Annie," he says, almost in wonder. And his voice is so familiar, it sounds just like it did when they made love. When he _used_ her.

She stands frozen on the spot, not knowing what to do, and he takes advantage of that to come closer and hug her.

"God, you're a sight for sore eyes!" Sam says softly, against her hair, then he draws back to look at her face. "Annie," he repeats, and he seems genuinely happy to see her.

She is still tense under his hands, but her initial anger has been replaced by much greater confusion. "DI Williams?" she asks, tentatively. "Sir?"

He frowns at her, taken aback. "No," he says. "It's me. _Sam_."

She stares at him in disbelief, feeling all the tension, and the shame, and the anger of the past days coiling in her stomach, and she draws back her hand and instead of slapping him like she did in his flat, she curls her fingers in a fist and punches him right in the face.

With a startled gasp he stumbles backwards, almost tripping over his legs, but ultimately keeping himself upright by leaning against the wall. Blood is gushing down from his nose in a red, shining stream. He looks up at her in disbelief and, even though her knuckles are scratched and hurting, she feels something expanding inside her, and finally – _finally_ – relief flows through her.

"Annie?" he asks, his voice small and choked.

She hopes she's broken the bloody bastard's nose.

"If you think you can come to me and act as if nothing has happened," she says. "Think _again_."

He shakes his head, his eyes wide. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The _nerve_ he has. "If you come near me again, I'll rip your bloody bollocks off," she hisses, and with a last glare she walks past him, heading to the exit.

"Annie!" he calls. "What have I- Annie!"

"What's all this bloody-" the Guv stops mid-bellow as his eyes travel behind her to stare at Sam, he scowls. "What are you doin' here?" he growls.

"Gene," Sam sobs, and Annie's disgust towards him has just reached new heights.

The Guv seems frozen on the spot, a flicker of indecision in his eyes, but it's just a moment, then his posture straightens, his jaw clenches, and he marches towards Sam, who's probably still cowering against the wall.

"_Gene_," he repeats. "It's _me_."

Annie starts walking again, long, confident strides, her head held high. And for once, she doesn't feel the need to stop her Guv's fury.

This particular bastard deserves every punch, every kick the Guv's going to put into him.

*

*

*

*

The next day, she arrives at work almost expecting to find smears of blood in the corridors and a crime scene. Or at least, a satisfied Gene Hunt, boasting to everybody how he's made that bastard Williams from Hyde pay.

There's nothing of the sort, though, and as lunch time comes nearer and the Guv still hasn't arrived, she starts to worry. Surely he won't have lost against Sam. Or maybe it was just a plan to provoke him into adopting violent behaviour towards a fellow police officer.

With an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach, she goes to find Phyllis. "Have you seen the Guv?" she asks her.

"Called in sick," she replies, with an arched eyebrow that suggests a huge amount of disbelief on her part.

Annie frowns. "Ever since I've known him, he's never called in sick," she says. Not even when he should have, coming to work with still healing wounds.

"If you ask me, he didn't sound sick at all, love," Phyllis replies. "Quite the contrary. But I'm just a desk sergeant, what do I know?"

*

*

*

*

When she sees Sam next, the day after as it is, he looks quite all right. Except for the split lip and the slightly swollen nose she's given him, of course. She should have seen him before, what kind of police officer is she? She's almost on the threshold of The Railway Arms when she finally notices him, and by then it's too late.

"Annie!" he exclaims, his hand closing on her arm.

She tries to shrug him off, but he grabs her other upper arm, high near the shoulder, and he squeezes, not tightly, almost gently instead.

"Let me go."

"Annie," he repeats, then with a small smile. "Please, don't rip off my bollocks."

She glares at him. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

"Well, it would hurt very much for starters," he says, but the joke falls flat. "Okay, just- Just listen to me for a minute, all right?"

She should say no, she knows how well he can fake those pleading eyes he's now sporting. She's been on the receiving end of this already too many times. He lied and made a fool out of her, and what he's asking of her is by all means the last thing she should do. But if he's here talking to her, in one piece, it means that the Guv believed him.

And she trusts her Guv.

"I-" he sighs and ducks his head, then he looks up again. "The Guv… Gene's told me that I should apologize to you and-"

She looks away.

"Annie, look at me," he says.

She rolls her eyes and turns back to stare at him.

"It's me, _Sam_," he says, determined. "And I don't know what my other… me has done to you, and I don't know if you'll ever forgive me, but… I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "Sam, I…"

"Oh, God," he suddenly gasps. "He hasn't- I haven't _hurt_ you, have I?" he asks, and the horror in his eyes seems so genuine that Annie actually wants to believe him.

"No, Sam," she replies, because he has _hurt_ her, very much, but not in the way everybody seems to imply. "But we can't go on with this… _thing_," she says, and at his confused frown she elaborates. "You can't go off and pretend you've lost all of your memories and then wear your Tyler disguise again and make as if everything's back to normal."

Sam smiles bitterly. "Gene told me about Morgan," he says. "I've found my- Williams'- notes and I've destroyed them all."

She frowns. "What?"

"You can go and ask the Guv. He was there," he replies, then takes her face into his hands but he drops them with a resigned sigh when Annie flinches away at touch. "It's _me_, Annie," he says. "I'm Sam, the nutter who hears things from the future."

She stares at him, and the man in front of her is acting so much like Sam, like _her_ Sam, that for the first time she can almost believe him. "Sam?" she asks, still somewhat unsure. "You have your memories back?"

He chuckles softly."Something like that," he says. "I come from 2006, and right now I'm in a coma. Sort of."

Annie rolls her eyes at the worn excuse, and Sam laughs. "My name is Sam _Tyler_," he says, stressing the name. "I came back."

"I don't-" she blinks away the tears in her eyes. "I still don't believe that future stuff, Sam. As I don't believe you had amnesia at this point, but everybody kept calling you Williams, and they said you were- _are_ undercover, and I…" she shakes her head.

"But you know _me_, Annie," he says, but he sounds as if he wants to be re-assured of that fact, and Annie doesn't know if she can. "You know that wasn't me. It could never be me."

"I don't know what to believe any more!" she exclaims, pushing at his chest.

"Sshh… It doesn't matter now," he says softly, tentatively reaching for her.

She lets him, and he takes her in a loose hug, and even the way he _smells_ has changed. Annie wishes this could be possible, wishes that Sam Williams and Sam Tyler really were two completely different men. But she knows it's just not possible.

Sam draws back, dropping a kiss on her forehead. "Thank you," he says, softly.

She frowns, confused. "For what?"

"For bringing me back here," he replies. "For telling me- For showing me this is real."

This argument is really getting old. "Sam, but this _is_ real."

"I _know_," he says, and laughs for seemingly no apparent reason.

"Then why…"

Sam shakes his head. "One day you'll believe me, Annie," he says, and he sounds absolutely certain.

"Sam…"

"Trust me, one day you will. I _know_ it. And then you'll come to find me."

And she wants to believe him, she wants to go to sleep and find out that it's all been a bad dream. But this is reality, it doesn't fade with the first rays of sunrise.

"I don't know if I can trust you, Sam," she finally admits. "Not any more."

He looks stricken by her words, but he nods. "I- I can understand that," he says. "And I don't blame you, Annie, I don't what I'd do in your place, either."

"Where do we go from here?" she asks, after a long moment.

"I don't know," he replies. "Wherever you want."

"I-" she starts, but the door of The Railway Arms flies open and the Guv comes stumbling out. Annie blinks at him. "I thought you were sick, Guv," she says.

Beside her, Sam laughs out loud. "Busted," he smirks, and the Guv shoots him a glare.

"What're you two doin' still here?" he asks, but he's looking at Annie. "The booze is inside, you know."

"Oh, you would," Sam says, reaching his side. "And apparently you've indulged."

"Shut yer trap, Tyler!" the Guv grunts, taking him in a headlock and bending him forward. And the scene looks so familiar that Annie has to look away.

"What's going to happen now, Guv?" she asks.

"Now we drink!" he proclaims, manhandling Sam towards the entrance of the pub.

"I don't think she meant-" Sam says, but his voice comes muffled from where his face his smashed against the Guv's side. Abruptly, he's let go and he stumbles a couple of steps back, readjusting his clothes and his hair, then he grimaces. "Bloody hell, Guv, you could try being gentle for a change, you know?" he snorts. "Or at least be less of a caveman. Healing wound, you know."

The Guv rolls his eyes. "You're a poncey girl, Gladys, you know that?"

"I don't see how I can be a girl and poncey at the same time," Sam says.

"If there's someone who can, it's you," the Guv retorts.

Sam narrows his eyes at him, but then he just snorts and rolls his eyes. "Fine, be that way, see if I-" and then he stops, turning widened eyes on her, as if just then remembering she's there. He stares at her for a long moment, then he turns to the Guv, an almost apprehensive look on his face. "Annie asked you a question, Guv," he says.

The Guv glances at her, then he turns to stare straight at Sam. He says nothing for a long time. "Depends."

"On what?" Sam asks.

"You here for good?" the Guv says.

"What do you say?"

The Guv shrugs. "Stay," he sniffs.

Sam smiles and ducks his head. "I will, then."

"We'll work something out," the Guv concludes, with a firm nod.

And Annie supposes they should get all inside, now. But The Guv is leaning against the wall, staring off at nothing in particular, one foot propped up on the first of the steps leading to The Railway Arms, and Sam is standing next to him, his eyes looking down at his feet, still smiling, hands in his pockets.

"Guv," she tries, but Chris crosses the street and reaches her side before she can say anything more.

"Hey, Guv," he says, nodding to him, then he looks at Sam, perplexed.

"Hi Chris," Sam smiles at him and nods.

"Uh, hi Boss," Chris smiles back tentatively, and finally he turns to her. "Annie," he says, then sneaks a glance at the two men in front of them, before continuing. "Why don't we go inside?"

She frowns slightly, but nods and leads the way.

*

*

*

*

 

Half an hour later Sam and the Guv enter the pub, the Guv slapping him on the back, Sam laughing at something he's said.

They go to sit at the bar, side by side, in perfect synchronicity.

*

*

*

*


End file.
